Sarcof

My suggest isn't to limit the number of times it can be done in an encounter, but instead basing it on distance to the leaping target. As an example, if the Vargr in question wishes to use leap, but cannot travel at least 6 or 8 blocks in the direction of their chosen target, then they cannot use the full 12 blocks and leap combination to engage, whether because they require a certain amount of acceleration or some other arbitrary reason.

Reserved

Grifter stands at the palisade that the stalwart men of the city of St. Lucien had erected. The civilians, the peasants were all gone, spread to other lands where they might find safety, might find peace and shelter. Next to him stands Isaac Jebediah, a Lector of St. Owyn, the two men both looking out at the city, talking quietly. A third joins their number, Isaac spitting dipspit onto the ground, Grifter smoking, the two looking away. All three were dirty, unkempt, and recovering from their wounds. All three remained, amongst the others, to hold the line.

THE BATTLE FOR LUCIENSBURG SEIZURE OF THE UNDERGROUND PASS ________________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________________ The men and women of Luciensburg waited in the abbey, watching as the Padre, Paco, give his sermon. Mixed amongst them were their allies from Hyspia and Yong Ping. Though few of them shared blood, battle had forged bonds not easily broken. The Lector walked amongst them, voice issuing from within his helm, splashing those around him with holy water, blessing them, anointing them. Preparing them for what they would find below. The Padre moved to the end of the abbey, his brief sermon finished. An older human man stepped up in front of the crowd, his beard more salt than pepper, a knitted black watch cap pulled over his head, covering the white fuzz that serves as an excuse for hair. His hands folded behind his back, Grifter took the dais. The noise in the room died down, and his voice cut through what little that remained, projected with the mastery of an orator. Idly, in the back of his mind, he wondered which of the assembled force within the room, and those waiting outside beyond, would survive the next fraught hours of fighting. How many of them had the mettle and temper to withstand the desperate hell that is tunnel warfare. "All of you, pay attention. This is your final briefing. The plan is simple. The majority of this combined force will assault the rats through the spider den that lies to the west of the city. Vicente, Duhu Tianrui, do you know the way?" The old man's eyes sought out and found the two individuals, the Li-Ren elf and the Hyspian commander. Both of them answered in the negative, and Grifter's jaw tightened. "Very well. We'll assign a scout to lead your detachment too them, where you'll take over." A voice cut him off before he could say further, belonging to an Adunian standing by the front, none other than the Burgomaster himself, Quentin Brae. "I'll lead them over to the dens, then if there's time, return and link up with the Checkpoint Team." "Very well. Good on you, Quentin. Now, while we're on the topic of the Checkpoint, some of you may have deduced that the spider tunnels won't be our primary push. It's simply a feint, to draw as many guards as we can away from the checkpoint and the palace. A second team, much smaller, will push into the tunnels beneath the city and secure the checkpoint while the rats are busy, and hold it. Those of you selected, stay behind for further briefing. Are there any questions?" There weren't many, and most of those were regarding who would be with which team. The final questions cleared up, Grifter looked to his left, before saying simply, "You've got them, Quentin. Checkpoint team, stay back for final checks." "Tunnels squad! Meet me by the tavern!" The majority of the people filed out, filling the square, the staircase up to the tavern, the tavern itself. Quentin stood in front of them, making sure everyone had gear, making sure everyone had weapons, that they knew their roles. The Duhu Tianrui and Vicente both marshaled their own forces, before waving the all ready to Quentin. He gave a shout, saying simply, "To the tunnels, everyone!" At the abbey, as the crowd moved past, Grifter looked at the much smaller group. A contingent of Owynists, the nobleman Renault, and two women from Yong Ping, of the Watanabe family. He recognized all of them, had fought with most of them before, and knew just how little they knew of tunnel fighting. He would call off an item, and have them hold it up, a simple way of assessing who had what gear, and one that revealed a small handful of deficiencies, things such as a lack of lanterns or crossbows. The man readjusted the crossbow on his back, having brought a spare over as well, and led the party down, into the sewers, towards the secondary entrance into the checkpoint. They passed through a hidden hole, just beneath the surface of the muck, and emerged into a carved out chamber, carved stone bricks forming the chamber. They advanced forwards, tearing through a hastily constructed barricade. As the barricade came down, the small team could already hear the screaming of men and women fighting and dying. The Adunian Burgomaster's voice carried along the tunnel, calling for Grifter and the others. A sense of urgency, of haste, took their actions as they began to attack those few rats that still occupied the checkpoint, striking and retreating back to the barricade where their numbers made little difference, before pushing further into the room. They came to a hole, from which more screaming issued, the sound of fighting echoing up, a few of the surviving members of the tunnel squad having hastily erected barricades, holding the enemy back. For the moment, anyways. A rope was dropped down, allowing a way to quickly reach the bottom without suffering injury, but a truly poor method to return back topside. However, there wasn't much of an option for returning anyways. This was a make or break, a chance to recover the checkpoint and secure the top of the city, or else lose it for good. Most everyone there from Luciensburg knew that. Grifter knew it. The push down the hallway was as grueling as what was expected. A slow, grinding advance ensued, consisting of pressing the Blackhide troopers back, further and further, step by step amidst a hail of thrusting spears and hacking swords. From close range, past the heads and over the shoulders of the front line, bolts and arrows were launched, shooting into the front ranks of Blackhide troopers. As each archway was reached, a barricade was constructed, the lead ranks falling back and bleeding the horde of troopers dry before advancing again. After the fourth barricade, they made it to the room where the majority of the conscripts and soldiers had been killed. The floor lay thick with bodies, covered by corpses rat and human and elf. They didn't have time to inspect the room before drums sounded in the deep, and more rats flooded up from the floor directly below the stairs, pressing the contingent back to the barricades again. Fighting resumed, the barricades straining under the press of bodies, the cursing, shouting, and crying out of individuals slowly whittling one another down. The wave of ratmen broke, the Ratiki holding back for a bit longer, and the assaulting alliance pressed forwards, establishing more hasty barricades where they could, ripping up everything not nailed down to press into service. From the support party, a cannon was lowered down, painstakingly brought below, lowered by ropes into the rear room and set up at the staircase that led down to the gate, aiming right at where the ratmen would assault from. As it was being loaded and set up, the next wave beat at the barricade, pressing in and against those formed on each of the separate stairwells. This wave broke, like those before it, and the cannon was loaded. More items were stacked in the doorway, blocking the way back inside, and the assaulters became the defenders, now reduced to weathering each successive assault by the rats. This next one went better. They pressed into the barricades, tearing at it while a small contingent of members from the YPA slashed at those on the other side. The men on the staircase, up on the landing, and in the tunnel called for them to clear the hole, to allow a clean shot. They began to slowly pull back, reluctant to abandon the barricade, delaying the inevitable moment of firing, until Grifter finally gave the call to fire anyways. The few left were killed along with the rats, the older human scowling at the waste of their lives, before belting out more orders, coordinating the next assault. The Duhu Tianrui was leading his siege crew in disassembling their ballista, to bring it below where it could be used to help staunch the flow of further assaults. The hours bled together and ran red. Those on the floor below were recovered as quickly as they could be, those still capable patched up and pressed back into service. The situation was as gritty, as unpleasant, as the more experienced hands had warned. There was no time to really relax, to stop and rest, to take a break. Grifter saw Vicente fall, covering one of his men. Another body to bury, or cremate. The stairs grew slick with blood, hands ran slick with sweat, and all the time the rats kept coming, trying to break the survivors. And then, suddenly, like a sluice gate being closed, the tide of stinking, malicious creatures stopped. Those who had weathered the assault panted, the ballista being brought forwards and built. The checkpoint was theirs now, the rats deeming the assault not worth the cost of more lives for the moment. Another barricade was set up at the mouth of the gate, and the defenders relaxed for a moment, breathing easily for the first time in hours. Bodies were gathered, the dead catalogued and collected for last rites, the wounded patched up as best they could. Grifter directed the transport of some of the wounded peasants, directing the lifting, making final exchanges. He saw the Owynists bring up the body of their comrade, Bessol, a man he had operated on before, and the Hyspians bring up the body of Vicente. He bowed his head for a moment, before continuing his work, establishing a watch, an alert system. He attended the final rites of Bessol and his cremation. And then, back to work. Isaac Jebediah and Padre Paco grabbed some of the mules and carts from their stables, and Grifter gathered those peasants who hadn't fought or had recovered, and led them to the blasted ruins of the keep. The initial supervision and briefings were provided by Grifter, however the lion's share of the work would be carried out by peasants, under the watchful eyes of the Owynists. For the moment, the city was secured. No longer under threat of being immediately assaulted by the Ratiki below them, the people of Luciensburg breathed a sigh of relief, if only while they prepared for the next, inevitable assault.

Grifter stands in the queue, checking the timepiece around his neck and spitting on the ground. "Go out on a hunt and things go to ****. ******* beautiful."

From the city of Ves, a group of five men departed. They wore a variety of armor, carried a variety of weapons. The only consistent thing about them was that each carried along a pack and a fluid skin strapped to the top.They departed in the direction of the swamp. A day later, they returned, their number less by one. The men of the Jackal Sect were muddy, bodies spattered by gore. They smelled of burning flesh and rotten meat, and several of the fluid skins were empty. Their carried one of their number, dragging him through the streets, bandages wrapped around the belly of the young man.

There's been a lot to read over. Plenty of fighting, and if I'd planned on making a reply from the start, I would have been collecting quotes the whole while. Honestly, I glossed over some of the longer responses, because it's late and I've no desire to read through 20+ quotes and responses in one post on this thread. If it's any indication of my mental state right now, I just had trouble finding the plus key. Horrid, I know. Now, I'm going to start by saying I'm in the grimdark RP crowd. My characters have PK'ed on RP deaths, as of about early Vailor. This has lead to some good RP on my part and some abysmal RP on my part, which I apologized for when called out for it and corrected in subsequent emotes. Just ask Skylez, NJBB or Bromadan about one time they fought me. I've had characters lose hands, eyes, fingers, ears, take horrible scars and just generally severe damage. I've been healed in character through numerous different methods, some by myself, some from other people. Over my time RP'ing, which isn't as long as some people but still isn't anything to sniff at, I've experienced and performed both mundane and alchemical healing roleplay. I've performed surgery IC on several people, and have generally received a handful of compliments on the quality and enjoyment of the healing. My characters have been healed by mundane means, alchemy, some absurd time magic, and a bit of ascended magic. I took part in the Mordskov eventline, being one of the players that helped build it up, flesh out ideas, and roleplay creatures. With my bona fides established, on to the actual discussion. Grimdark RP The argument for PK on RP death has come up with it, and I've played both sides in the argument. PK'ing on an RP death is done, although not necessarily seen as death posts aren't always thrown up. Although few people most likely know it, Skylez has PK'ed at least two characters recently, a darkstalker and a young elf. I'm not keen on people PK'ing on death, because I believe the server would either devolve into just permanent slice of life and tavern RP, with no one wanting to go out and engage in an sort of RP conflict, or all conflict resorting to solely PvP. I'm bad at PvP, so it's a bit unpleasant to me. Sometimes, it even gets me quite tilted. I also believe it would stymie a good bit of character development, as most characters wouldn't live long enough in the current state of RP to craft any significant story. The people that would be affected by their death wouldn't last much longer, and unless you just turtled up or went only for events, story probably wouldn't develop, as CRP between players is hit or miss on survival and quality. Poor RP I've experienced a fair number of different mediums of RP. For the most part, provided the RP I have to interact with is of decent quality, I don't mind. And I do have low standards, where the only RP I generally dislike is meme RP or the minas or die RP done by most bandits on the server as a bare minimum to start PVP. The exception I make to this is when it breaks with what should fit with a creature. While I enjoyed the concept of Devirad, I disliked what it became. But there was a good bit of activity, so that was fun. Now, it's been brought up that the main issue with holy healing, according to it's defendants, is that the instances drawn up were cases of poor roleplayers. And while some people did bring up issuing player reports or ban reports in regards to powergaming, or contacting the LMs, the simple fact is no one wants to. They usually turn into an argument and degenerate into a toxic back and forth, ruining community cohesion. In some cases, proving the charge is difficult, should logs not be on hand or the actions performed only be able to be proven by a recording. On the actual topic of holy healing, any sort of healing magic is usually absurdly good. The reasoning is simple, in that you can do anything provided you have the energy and the knowledge. The ability to remove crippling injuries is obviously beneficial. It can also be circumvented through other forms of roleplay, such as golemancy. And I do agree with several of the people who advocate for consequences in RP. If something happens to your character, it should either affect roleplay down the line, or should breed roleplay through dealing with this. While it's much easier to brush it off, than to try and RP a recovery or adaptation, especially if you don't know what you're RP'ing, the more quality RP, the better. Quality RP builds characters and their stories, and by the time their stories end, in the event they end, they should have grown. They can't do that if nothing happens to them. But, I don't believe a character should be rendered unplayable. A blind nugget might as well be dead, and once a character can no longer grow, what's the point of the character? Which is why I'm in favor of maimed characters being able to be healed, but not as it is now. At this point, it's essentially a reset button, with nothing to show for it and little development afterwards. Not even a scar, in most cases. Healing Adjustments While nothing can be said for what changes have been made to the Ascended yet, and with nothing regarding the Paladins popping up, the focus of this lies in discussing the Clerics. What most appeals to me is numerous, in-depth sessions requiring healing of major or complex injuries. I say complex because, for example an eye, is a complex little organ. It involves numerous specialized cells, muscles, and tissues to perform it's job adequately. Mess up any one of these, and you might have a malfunctioning or entirely useless eye, which should then have to be removed and formed all over again. I'm also in favor of there being some sort of indication for a wound, and some sort of blow back for the healer. Perhaps a scar might be left behind, perhaps the tissue wouldn't be as flexible or would be numb, insensate. It might grow cold quicker or be more easily injured. The only way to quickly grow a limb might be to reattach it, and then there might be nerve issues in the limb below that point, it might be stiffer or might suffer phantom pains, things of that sort. As for blow back, while there is the issue with healers suffering exhaustion, given what I believe is an apparent bind between their healing and the soul of the person being healed, I think the healer should also feel the emotional trauma that came with that wound, and perhaps see a discoloration or marking on their own body of where the wound was. The concept of faith being necessary is extremely interesting to me, and it's somewhat logically sound. Why should an Aengul extend it's help to someone that places no stock in them, that doesn't worship them or make any sort of offering to them? But, how would it be regulated? Perhaps the person simply has to pray as well. The healer could ask in OOC if their faith is genuine. Of course, they could easily lie, which is against the rules, but a player report wouldn't be necessary. Should it be found out, those who find out, should they be clerics, could simply emote Tahariae withdrawing their blessing from the person who was healed. Whatever magic was worked would sour, the injury in question turning gangrenous or simply reverting.

Victor looks at the poster blankly, quite unable to read and not entirely sure why he has a feeling of needing to nod...

Yes, conception, birth, and a child being formed is more complicated than that. It requires a myriad of cells, initially blank stem cells, replicating over time to form the body. Structures take shape, hormones are added, and eventually a baby is ready to pop out. But, this is a fantasy server, and some things are just allowed to happen. Something with much greater impact that can't happen on our lore is Slayer Steel. With metallurgy and alloying metals, the metals need to be of similar size in order to form a matrix which can hold each other together. This has been done before, but by using the metal of another element. One not used on LotC. A plant being able to eat meat in order to get the necessary ingredients for the body to make stem cells and form them is as realistic as gold and iron being an alloy without some sort of go between metal.

So, to those of you wondering how this happens. I've seen a few points brought up, biggest thing is how they do it. The organs of a bryophite all work the same. They aren't terribly different from Descendants, except in having a few extra needs and what makes up their bodies. More sugar, more water, sunlight, and they'll create the moss by entering a trance-like state. Flowers bloom in their hair and they leave pollen from their hands everywhere they can touch. This trance is essentially just them walking around touching things. Another point brought up, which is a good one, is how plants can make flesh and blood. The pregnant bryophite has thought of this. The character's body is craving meat, fat, and milk, for the sole purpose of providing raw material that the body can use to make the baby's body. Other than that, stop belly-aching and crying so much. It's just RP, and most of you likely don't even have to interact with the people involved in it. Stop raining on someone else's RP with something that really isn't a big deal.

+1 Good lore. Well written, makes sense.

Allow me to delve into a bit of history and ballistic theory here. Firstly, the initial method of making barrels, primarily for blunderbusses because they don't need as smooth of a bore to hold a single projectile, due to holding a cluster of small projectiles, was simply to hammer a bunch of nails and other scrap into a circular tube, welding all the while. That being said, this was a long, slow process, usually halted by the necessity of other, more urgent projects. A musket barrel, notice not a rifle barrel, took even longer, because the weapon first had to be forged, due to the fact that cast iron was weaker and heavier, and then milled with a drill and oil press. There wasn't any sort of mass-manufacturing of arms and cartridges until after the industrial revolution, where you had machines that could rapidly mill barrels. The only other way to crank out weapons on any sort of rapid scale would be to put a pack of individuals to work, all doing the same thing. And that's not to include making use of the trigger mechanisms, which requires skill more akin to that of a fledgling watchmaker. Now, to ballistics. The assumption is that these weapons will be an effective replacement of crossbows, longbows, arbalests, shortbows, recurve bows, and every other ranged combat apparatus being used thus far. Asides from the fact that making and acquiring these will be difficult, there's also the fact that early firearms were nothing even close to being as effective as their modern counterparts. The biggest benefit of ballistics to date is rifling, something missing in these early weapons. Without rifling to put the spin on the projectile and stabilize it, the bullet being fired is much more likely to miss. This is why you had those great big lines during firearm battles. It was to increase the chances of targets actually being hit. Now, when rifling became common practice, that became a horrible method of fighting because you could actually hit your target at that point. It's why there was such long barreled weapons, because that would assist in accuracy to some degree. But these are weapons seen in the 18th century, towards the end of the century. We're talking starting weapons. Let's consider range, firstly. The longbow, and by extension the properly trained bowman, had a maximum effective range of roughly 300 meters. Accounts vary, lengthening or shortening that distance, but this is still a long way. So important was the ability of the bowman to hit his target at that range that archery was the only sport or art allowed to be practiced on Sundays, bar none. No training of any sort was done except for that conducted by archers. Of course, this was a fully trained bowman, not your average peasant or warrior. Which is why recurve and short bows were so popular amongst hunters, due to them requiring less strength to use, but similar levels of skill. The crossbow is the exception, being a layman's weapon. It took less skill to use, and a superbly made crossbow could even begin to hit targets at the distance that the longbow could. However, getting such a weapon was an expensive affair, and most crossbowmen and arbalesters were equipped with weapons made using cheaper, less refined techniques. Still much easier to hammer out than a firearm. Now let's look at the firearms. The longest effective range against moderately armored targets is the long musket, being about 63 meters, where 1 meter equals 1 block in game. To fire it, it takes between 3 and 5 emotes, as opposed to an archer's 2. At such range, without rifling, the chances of landing a hit where the musketeer was aiming is lackluster. This range falls well within the range of a longbow and even a decently made crossbow or a shabbily made arbalest. A crossbow can be loaded, aimed, and fired in three emotes. The bow, as I said earlier, can achieve the same thing in two. Given that the aggressor has decent eyesight, they are able to competently land shots on the musketeer, because their projectile will fly straighter, for as far, and still be dangerous. The only time a firearm shines is in close quarters, where it has the velocity and impact to actually make something happen. And, even then, this breaks from history in that plate armor will be able to stop the round, at the cost a sizable dent. The only weapon that will make a hole through plate, a big one, at that, is the blunderbuss, which quickly becomes less effective. Now, I won't get into the concept of bulletproof body armor, as the real danger isn't stopping the bullet but the force of the bullet as it tries to transfer through. That's why ceramic body armor craters and polystyrene armor lets the bullet melt it and freeze in place. It's why steel alone isn't necessarily a good choice, because that big dent dimpling inwards will still cause damage. The nice benefit of most armor at this time, however, is there's standoff between the plate and the body, and there's padding and chain mail in between. There's one last thing, to reinforce the mechanical point. Anything being done to dodge having to roll for the weapon as it fires, skimping on emotes, and trying to make the weapon without lore approval is powergaming. If it's done, it's as punishable as a mage calling down lightning with one emote. The weapon can't be acquired through event loot, the powder can't be made by alchemists outside of the circle, and it'll be tracked who all has the weapon. I would even go so far as to make it a requirement that there be a paper trail for if the weapon is looted, with the original owner informing the right people of the weapon having been snagged. The looter, however, would soon find themselves out of powder and shot, and carrying around a nice club, provided that the weapon doesn't malfunction or misfire in some way.

+1 Clear sign of the lore mastery of Phillis.

Renuald also stands in the crowd, watching his colleague speak. He gauges the faces around him, but unlike Vicelin, he searches for the hardened scowls or determined set of faces that seek to either aid them or fight them.

Oan of Brevis continued fighting on nearby, before finally meeting his end. He ascended to the Seven Skies, alongside his young apprentice.

In the Forest near Marandar Pass, there's the shattered corpse of a man, no longer recognizable as such. Should any stumble on it, they would find a torn pack nearby, and the corpse of a ghoul with an aurum hunting knife within the head of the ghoul. A struggle occurred here, but more than just that of a man and a ghoul. Although none would recognize it, this was the final resting place of one of the last few Marked Men, Oan of Brevis. The Marked Man didn't expect that he was going to die. No one really does. But, still he had. There had been five of them when they departed, leaving from the cart of Norland. He had been mounted on horse back, the leading navigator of the party. They crossed to the mountains near Marandar Pass, and then ascended over them. Their target was a small encampment across Mordring's Bridge, where they aimed to grab an underling for information. The cold had been bracing, and biting across his legs, where the burn scars that a Black Wyvern had left him still dwelled. He knocked back a cocktail of potions, feeling their effects swell through his veins, the rush of energy, the increased speed and sharpening of his senses. If only there was some way to make this permanent... The fight went as well as one might expect. The mindless drones fell, but a gate stopped them. He turned, in the process of removing the ladder from a tower to allow them to get over the wall, and stopped, facing one of Mordring's Ghouls, one of the elevated ones. He raised his voice in a shout, saying to the others in the party, "Reinforcements are here! Time to go!" He turned on the ball of his foot, sprinting away, only slowing to make sure the others followed. They did, fortunately. The group ran, occasionally stopping to fight, but mainly just retreating as fast as they could before numbers could overwhelm them. They almost made it too. Mordring's drones, the mindless necrotics that weren't much more than a cold body, had stopped in the ravine. Without them, the numbers had evened out. The group slowed, considering fighting, and then the sentient undead that had been chasing the retreating raiders, they crashed against them. The group was taken by surprise, doing little against the force. The lich with them, Coltaine of the North, hit him at a tackle and he fell, his chin failing to tuck to his chest and his brain fogging as his head hit the cold ground. And there he lay, and would have lain, had the ghoul not been ordered to eat him. It started forwards, but wasn't stupid, and instead of biting first, it went to stab the sword held in it's rotting hand down and into the chest of the man. As it did, Oan struck with his right arm, setting aside the blade to the outside, and drew an aurum hunting knife, an Ouroboros etched into it, from it's sheath. He drove it upwards even as the ghoul brought the shield in it's other arm down and against the man's collarbone. The gambeson and armor he wore absorbed the blow nicely, and the hunting knife stabbed up into the ghoul's brain. It jerked, and it's compatriot, an elf, advanced on the pair, waiting for an opening without the shield in the way. The ghoul, with it's dying thought, jerked backwards, and with it went Oan, dodging a stab from the elf even as the ghoul wrapped it's hands around his arm, doing it's final job. The Dread Knight that had chased them pursued one of their number who had gotten to his feet and ran, dodging the thrown projectiles. Although Oan wasn't counting, this was no less than three javelins, a throwing axe, and a dagger. The elf pulled his sword back as Oan tried to free himself, stabbing down once more. Once again, the Marked Man turned on his side, and set the blade aside. The Dread Knight approached, it's quarry having escaped. The elf stepped back, allowing the figure clad in black armor to step forwards. It stabbed the zweihander it carried down towards Oan, and he moved once more. This time, he did not escape the killing stroke without harm. The point dug into his arm, just above the elbow, and pinned him there. The lich, Coltaine, who had been pulling gear from the unconscious form of Gansem this whole time, began to strike up a conversation with the recently revived Lector. They watched the fight, Gansem in no shape to help his associate as the Dread Knight drove down, driving the weapon through Oan's arm, the bone fractured and split. Still, the Marked Man thrashed, and although he missed it, the lich remarked on this. Gansem asked them, ""I assume there's a reason 'e's bein' stabbed an' I'm not?" The Dread Knight, not as focused on surviving as his quarry, voiced up before Coltaine could, saying, "You cooperate." Coltaine explained further, saying that, "We needed a prisoner, I think. You aren't rabid like that one." How rabid the Marked Man was, they didn't know. He rolled, driving his arm against the edge of the zweihander and severing the limb, leaving it on the ground behind him, the stone hand still flexing around the handle of the knife. Oan felt this only as an abstract thing, the potions in his blood combining with the adrenaline and will to live that he felt to produce a being determined to live. The strike had sapped his energy, a product of the ghost bound to the zweihander of the Dread Knight, but Oan took no note of this. He turned, bolting, even as another stroke cut across his back, the unstoppable force of an enraged and determined Dread Knight carrying the strike forwards. It cut through his pack and gambeson, and sliced along the muscles of his back, chipping his vertebrae and scoring his ribs. As an abstract thing, he felt his energy get sapped a little more, but he carried on, still trying to escape. His senses were still sharp, and he heard the dread being draw near once more. The figure turned, pivoting as he ran and took the stab that was aimed for his back through his side, the gambeson being pierced once more. His energy was almost gone, but still he ran, not as fast as when he started, but still struggling and clawing for a few more moments of survival, raging against the encroaching darkness that longed to consume him and draw him down into the black depths. He refused to go quietly. The voice of the Dread Knight came from within his helmet once more, commenting, "It takes many hits but still it does not go down." A descending stroke, aimed for the fleeing man's right shoulder, misses, cleaving only air. He makes it a few more steps before falling, rolling and landing on his back. He struggles to move, but cannot. His limbs don't respond, his chest heaves for air amidst ragged panting. The darkness threatened to consume him. He could see figures in it, familiar faces of friends long dead calling for him, reaching for him. He wanted so badly to go to them, to finally rest, to be at peace. But, still he marshaled what he had left against the darkness, forcing it back. The zweihander, as impending as a guillotine, rose, and descended for his head. "Wait." It's the first word he's said since the fight began. The sword stops, hanging above his head. Struggling, the grizzled Marked Man rose to a sitting stance, brushing the weapon aside with his stump. The Dread Knight stops, waiting, as the injured man says, his voice raspy, "Water, please." A leather bundle attached to his chest rose with his breathing, a ring attached to it. The Dread Knight does not give him water. He expected no less as he reached for the ring. Instead, a sword stabs through him, piercing his body and his lung. He shouted, a final departing noise, carrying with it the rage he felt that it should end now. He'd done so much. He'd wanted to do so much more. The faces took shape, became recognizable once more... He did not cry, he did not weep or beg. He pulled the pin, causing a sizzle to issue forth, a final feral smile marring his face and crinkling the scars over his left eye, claimed in the trials he'd endured. How he wished for another ending, another chance he knew would not come. His world disappeared in an explosion of fire and steel and aurum, lancing into those in front of him. Hands clasped his soul, and pulled him upwards, not down like he'd expected. Familiar faces whispered kind words, coaxing him along. The faces of Adeon of Rhoswen, his wife Dizah and his wife Anna, his son Phillip. His friends from the Legion and strangely enough, the face of his student, Haddock. So many friends. The lich, Coltaine, walked over to his corpse, searching for the Marked Medallion, that of a fox's head, which he could not find. As the remains steamed in the air, no one cried out or wept. Oan Frondson of Brevis, also known as Ser William Fletcher, Knight and Marked Man of the School of the Fox, lay dead.

Oan of Brevis, one of the new members of the city, pins up a piece of vellum. On it is written a desire to take the role of Bar Keep at the local tavern.

Username: Warmarcher Character Name: Oan of Brevis

BASIC INFORMATION « OUT OF CHARACTER NAME » Warmarcher « IN CHARACTER NAME » William Fletcher « CLASS » C1 « GENDER » Male PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION « DATE OF BIRTH » 11th of Amber Cold, 1489 « HEIGHT & WEIGHT » 5'8", 193 lbs. « EYE, SKIN & HAIR COLOR » Blue, light skin, brown. « CULTURE » N/A « MARKINGS » Light scars along scalp, shaved head, burn scar along left side of the jaw. PERSONAL INFORMATION « HOME ADDRESS » N/A « PROVINCE » Crownlands « OCCUPATION » Legionnaire CITIZEN'S OATH « ALL CITIZENS » I, William Fletcher, hereby swear my loyalty to the Emperor of the Holy Orenian Empire entirely by my free will. I swear to read and obey the laws of the Empire and understand the punishments and penalties that will be incurred should I violate the law.

In the barracks of the Nauzican Brigade, alongside two other Nauzicans. He repeats after the Tribune in a solemn tone, "I swear to be true to our Lord, our Imperial Liege, and His realm, to not be silent in the face of true evil that conspires against our homeland. I swear to raise my blade against any foe, righteous or wrong, against our Lord and our Imperial Liege, to not stand idle in the face of danger. I swear to cast off any traitor be it friend or foe in honour of our Lord and our Imperial Liege. I swear this before God and men. I bid farewell to my former life and grace my newest with my shield and blade; stalwart and ever vigilant for our Imperial Liege. On this, I kiss the cross." With that, the Nauzican had been sworn into the order alongside his brothers.

Name and surname: William Fletcher (Warmarcher) Age: 43 Racial status: Highlander, no accent. Any prior service: No. Preferred Legion: Legio I Ioannes Preferred Brigade: As needed. Any trades or skills, such as smithing or mining, that you could provide to the Imperial Legions: Mining, smithing, cooking, wood working. Do you understand that an oath requiring a minimum of 2 years (2 saint’s weeks) service will be taken?: Yes.

Imaginative, good writer, fun to listen to... What else do you need for LM? +1