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Gilded

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About Gilded

  • Rank
    None shall find us wanting

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    Gilded#1905
  • Minecraft Username
    GildedDuke

Profile Information

  • Gender
    Male
  • Location
    Almenor

Character Profile

  • Character Name
    Olórin Telemnar | Elandriel Taliame'onn
  • Character Race
    Elf | Wood-Elf

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  1. “See, this is why you don’t play with fire, children,” Olórin would state, addressing a crowd of young mali’.
  2. ”May we all, in this combined effort, vanquish the darkness...” Olórin Telemnar would state, the sails unravelling upon the great fleet of Almenor.
  3. Gilded

    First Contact

    Straps on Power-Fist and loads Bolter!
  4. Hope everyone’s day was great. Reminder that it’s all just Mineman roleplay. There’s no evil Empire under the bed.

    1. Cornivore

      Cornivore

      Thats what they want you to think.

    2. monkey poacher

      monkey poacher

      450?cb=20140322045240&path-prefix=protag

      orenian legionnaires killed my wife and son. my name is maximus decimus meridius. prepare to die.

  5. You never change. The same old mad child.
  6. The Dream of Elvenesse A brief overview of the Almenodrim; by Olórin Telemnar. Consider the children of Malin in their awakening. Proud and untarnished; yet to be afflicted by the Arch-Deceiver, Iblees and his curse. What is most apparent about the elves of that age was a singular concept of unity, under their forefather and progenitor. Now, conceptualise those who cherish that image; their motivation - to unite their fragmented kin in all their breadth. This desire harboured amongst the Almenodrim was not conceived through great acts of valiance, or legendary heroism. It is a tragic lament, laced with an age-old regret and failure. Such is the Dream of Elvenesse to be considered an expression of remorse; a wish right the wrongs committed in ancient history. Yet, what wrongs could be considered so sickening that they’ve lingered in peoples' minds since the marring of the old world? Why, it is the act of spilling the blood of one’s kin in an age of strife and hardship. Though considered what is in truth primarily responsible for the long-term polarisation of Malin’s descendants and the partition of Old Malinor, the true details of the crimes attributed to the first son of the King have since been lost from the annals of time. None have pinned, and quite possibly will be forever unable to pin exactly when Sylvaen’s hands were stained with blood, or when his own people fled into exile. But it is considered fact nonetheless, for though scripture may have decayed, grief has lingered. In exile, the Almenodrim truly marked themselves as ambitious but somber people, reflecting on the wrongs they had inflicted upon their kin. Yet, they did not linger in depression, instead channelling their grief into crafts and an everlasting desire for stewardship. Even in disgrace, the wayward children of Malin sought to follow the legacy of their sire, and proof of this was etched eternal into the stones of their citadels upon the distant shores. Centuries came to pass, and their eventual return to the lands of old was met with unease. Naturally, the descendants of those whose blood was spilt displayed justified skepticism, and such was recognised by the lords of old Aegrothond. No artefact, gift nor craft held then and there could suture the wound Sylvaen’s hand had carved. So, his sons, under the name Sylvaeri, offered their hearts instead - an exchange of oaths and hymns of repentance. Such words again, scattered into obscurity, but known to have lit a beacon of hope and inspired a dream. As a people, the Almenodrim are not completely defined by a right of blood and legacy, but rather they are a people who accumulate their membership through similar idealism. Thus, as the ages have passed, identities perhaps once not attributed to Sylvaen’s folk have come to stand beneath their crimson banners. The Dream of Elvenesse has proven to unite the elves, regardless of origin, for the purpose of forging a greater, unadulterated Malinor. What is keenly attributed then to the dream is not only a desire then to craft such a realm, but also the stewardship so maintain and make it a reality. Perhaps that is the truth behind their vast populace of artisans; folk who hone their skills at the forge and mast, so to temper their minds for the looming task ahead. People are then often swift to criticise the idealistic, for sometimes a dream may prove to be unrealistic and bear ill-fruit for the aspirant. Yet, to linger in what is a definite hovel would be to subject oneself to a fate of stagnancy. As the saying goes - nothing ventured, nothing gained. The Almenodrim take this to heart, for even as the ages have yielded hardship, still they have strived to atone for past grievances. To usher in a new golden age for the children of Malin. So to conclude this brief study, we can take away perhaps a clearer picture of what exactly defines their dream, the Dream of Elvenesse. Shaped clearly by their grief and ideals, this scholar could argue there are perhaps few more stubborn in their conviction amongst the children of Malin than the Almenodrim. Still, many paths linger ahead, and one should be curious to see where they may next lead. Perhaps something to be elaborated upon further, when the next chapter in this world unfolds.
  7. The Passing of the Silver Sage Retiring a little earlier than usual, Artanáro navigated himself through the great citadel of Aegrothond, his steps now more akin to troubled staggering. Every bone of his aged body now ached, and the gut-wrenching pain that had been with him for months now had yet to subside. He was old now; a shadow of whom had presented themselves to the Sea-Prince’s court, many years ago. But still, he persisted. Even with weary feet, a wrinkling complexion and scarred limbs, he’d fulfilled the role of which he swore to uphold. Another scar was a trivial thing in his mind, but such a naive approach to one’s own health could cost them dearly. The malevolent spell of a greater demon, the icing on a many layered cake of battles, was perhaps enough to hammer home that reality. Artanáro… no, Rickard… knew that he was stretched thin, the cane in his hand evidence that even his legs were giving way. “I think I’ll sit outside tonight,” the old man mused. With one last gruelling effort, he began the ascent to the great cape that overlooked the bay. Such a climb could take the wind out of him at this hour, but the surprise would be well worth it. As he looked out across the calm sea, where the Almenodrim fleet had since laid anchor, the splendour of the full moon lit up the night sky. There, black waters were transformed into a reflection of glistening starlight and all was quiet - all but the sound of soft waves against the cliffs. So his mind wandered, and his silver eyes, luminescent as ever, glowed with an ever dimming light. Such an unpredictable life he’d lived. A Duke of Carnatia and a scion of Kovac. An Ascended - the Silver Sage. A councillor of the Prince of Elvenesse. One hundred and fifty years this had gone on for. No man of a typical calibre could’ve lived as long as he had - certainly none that had come of his line prior. There was much to cherish and yet much to regret. Much to do and yet much to let go. Something to live for and something to let rest. So he hastened to the submit of the cape and grasped at the splendorous moonbeams. A sight to behold; an eternal beauty that not even age could dull. But his cane fell from his right hand, and Rickard’s fingertips flaked, and for a moment it seemed his digits were wreathed in living flame. Translucent crystal soon took root, and what had once been a hand now crumbled to dust, blowing in the summer breeze and across the bay. “So this is the hour…” he muttered, bearing a solemn tone of voice. Rickard then sighed and comfortably smiled. If there was such a thing as closure, then perhaps this was it. He had finally fulfilled his duty. Sokar’s bells rang out across the twilight, the great sea now giving way to an ashen lunar desert. So the Ascended followed the chimes across the dunes, guided by the light before his path. His final destination was before him. The golden city of the Arch-Aengul - the haven for all her faithful servants and the family whose reunion he cherished! Thus did the mortal journey of Rickard Kovachev end. Thus did he embrace the touch of his Patron. Thus did he rejoice in finding peace... Rickard Henrik Kovachev 1623-1773 12th Duke of Carnatia; Count of Kovachgrad, Silver Sage of Rapport; Grand Master of the Elvenesse Honour Guard Will and Letters [!] Many letters would be addressed to select individuals across the continent of Arcas [!] ~ Evelyn ~ @ImChiicken ~ Helena and Cassandra ~ @MunaZaldrizoti & @Starryy ~ Tristan ~ @Sorcerio ~ Prince Fëanor Sylvarei ~ @wan ~ To the Ascended ~ @Minst, @funnayyyyy, @Sorairo & @Cordial__ OOC Note Well everyone, this is it. A day I have long sought to avoid, but one that I knew would eventually come. Rickard Kovachev (or Vientos, or even Artanáro) was a character I first started playing around about the end of Axios. What was meant to be a mere follow-up noble character, who’d fulfil the cliché vassal role we typically expect from any stuck-up lord, turned out to be one of the most unpredictable and lovable characters I ever played on this server. Honestly, I am going to miss him, but I believe all good stories must come to an end eventually. For Rickard, this was his last stop and I want to thank everyone who joined me through this experience. P.S. To those of you whose characters I didn’t get around to writing letters for – my apologies! Writing this much tends to cramp one’s hand up and demands a constant flow of tea breaks.
  8. “Well, how long has it been?” The thought throbbed within Artanáro’s head, memories of the distant past feeling more like an echo with each passing day. At first, the signs were subtle. The occasional desire to sit - to rest one’s feet upon a stool. To recline next to a warm lit fire, to ease the pain that had crept up his back. Of course, everyone desired respite now and then, but these occasions became all the more regular. Then came the next signs of change. A slight drag at his heels as he sparred with young Evelyn, the elfess’ footwork waxing, whilst the tendons in his knees snapped horridly. Artanáro… no, Rickard... thought back to his most distant memories, adrift within the slow decay of time. His uncle Viktor’s greying beard. His grinding shoulder, scraping like a chisel with the pain of arthritis. It had never dwelled upon him before - “So why now?” he thought. As the century bore on, so too did age and experience pave the pathway to knowledge and wisdom. Yet, never before did he ever feel old, not in the physical sense. The Arch-Aengul’s blessings had annulled the curse of Iblees, or so it did for a time. That boon had since left him, and so mortality once again ran rampant. “How many decades will it have been, roughly?” He guessed at his physical age, as if it were a game. A light amusement to pass the time. Fourties? Fifties? How long would it last? Ironic, he had come to live amongst the sons of Malin, expecting to reside for a lengthy period, as he had been accustomed to for the last century. Yet, now he faded, like the rest of his true birth-kin. Nothing truly lasts forever in this realm, and that truth is perhaps no more exemplified than in the race of humanity. Was it something to envy? To despise? Here stood a man who’d outlived all his prior peers. A man who’d outlived every other heir to his disgraced bloodline. Yet, one could only cherish such trivial accomplishments for so long. So he chuckled, and so he embraced the comfort of his armchair. No, Rickard wasn’t at all envious - not in the face of growing old. His only fear was the experience. The reality that there was still so much in this world to be seen... “...Or perhaps... I’ve seen enough for one life.”
  9. Name: Artanaro Ithilher Nation: Elvenesse Combat Experience: Warrior
  10. Amazing write up. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. What a perfect way to add an essence of character to the ancient antagonist.
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