Jentos

”If we do not know death, if we do not know how it feels, if we are not aware. Can we die?” recited hence the Schoolman, raising two fingers above.

THE HOUSE OF NAMES I Mistah Lazlo, ay - I understand you, but what if ‘e was dead? D’ythink if God were dead he’d be angry at us for killing ‘im? What drew him there he never knew. But as the stars peaked from amongst unclouded heavens, a single chimney drew smoke in the silent, dreaming town of Rubern. Despite the few furtive individuals that still crossed the streets under shadow and crook, the settlement by all means was dead. The black prince has left his hall, and so had the dogs, the carpenters, smith - all but the baker who sat, brooding in his home. He curled a lip back, blue eyes drawn to the night sky from his window. He decidedly exited his above, door opening in a most comical fashion - followed by the eyes of the poor sod who soon flashed left and right amongst the trodden streets. Returning to the place had not been easy - the gates had found their way shut, the very air itself stank with an uneasy spirit. The baker had resolved himself to try the house further along the eastern wall. That house, with it’s dried, cracking walls and yawning windows. The worst of it was the rats, the rats and birds - onyx and shiny like some patch of star amongst the already dread-ink sky. There was a fearsome look to the household with it’s tower and mouldering bricks. But the very aura that surrounded the place had a somewhat fantastic feel to it, a freshness and chill that caught the very air in one’s throat. Shadows cast over his features from his hood, the man looked spitefully on the building that leered before him. Birds crowned it’s façade, droppings vested it’s walls and yet not a sound was heard, as if the world itself was staring down at him in silent appall, haunted in legend and whispers of demoniac poems and sinister cabals. A stray cat let out it’s whine in the distance. A man cursed from his abode. A woman shrieked. The baker turned the thief thread down the path, up to the doorframe of the building, chilled fingers clutching hard at the handle with remorse, eyeing with near hate that thing that stood before him, vacant and careless, the silent guardian; the door. The thief had once regarded the place with a sort of silent jealousy at it’s elegance and homeliness, though now as the two doors swung open, unlocked, forgotten - it was nothing but a throbbing sucking at his heart that told him otherwise, a disturbing lack of envy and for a brief moment it appeared his greed had displaced itself, though forever lurking. The song of the hinges was a painful shriek, and the floorboards of the place let out a great creaking as the man stepped inside. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The man thought as he silently paced down the hallway. There was a stillness to the room - flakes of dust sprang in and out of the light, so cast down from one of the high windows which let in moonlight. Like ashes those flecks danced and spun about, losing themselves to the turmoil the swinging of the door had cast open, the flecks of dust spinning loosely and vanishing in and out of sight. He would light no candle - he would not cast life into his rusty lantern he kept home - everyone knew the very place was filled with all sorts of trinkets and old antiquities that had come from scorching Korvassa, letters and old stones from that pale city, Mordskov. Things holy said to come from Gamesh. And other things of Laria - of bygone places of Aeldin. And other relics, from places that by all rights, should never exist. But by all rights, Rubern had become a cursed place. Yet haunted by the stories of wanton tribes and thieves, of slumbering vampyr and golden-eye’d men. Of green-coated occultists and those two, haunting grim men, with whispers forever haunting their lips. What forlorn truths, what dark things had the Black Prince of Rubern carried in his grave? None should know. If he were to bring light into this sorry place, all would know. All would come. If he were not yet dead then whatever treasures this place kept would be robbed from his frame, and he himself would be mangled and twisted by whatever crooks remained. There would be no light. For perhaps there layed shadows in this place that were better to remain. The ceiling of the room was high, the place near empty but for old furniture - no cobwebs. The moonlight cast down over his frame, painting him in that pale light - and he gazed out the old, ornate window panes no children had dared break. And he cast his eyes over that horrible, horrible thing. The moon looked down. Round and grotesque, silent and watching. It loomed and it basqued in the very echoes of the night. Undying and beyond age. Why was it alive? Why dare it watch? By what right? That white… Wretched… Beating heart. Clouds began to advance, like a host - an army of charging clouds to overwhelm and cross the moon, black was their embrace as the clouds slid like fingers over the surface of the very thing. And then the pitter, patter of rain that drummed over the top of the household. The man walked on, and he edged towards a looming, three-pointed thing on the top of a shelf. The candelabra looked old and worn, and to the dimness of the place the thief could barely make out the very coloration of the object - that sweet, worn yellow which might have been gold. Beeswax made red covered the sconces, like sap that had bled from a tree, leaving him with the soft smell of wax. He once more turned, and gazed out at the high window - but there was only shadows, shadows that clouded the very moon - the ghost of clouds. And the man dared wonder at the very clouds - things eternally twisting and passing, innumerable, fading in and out of existence. Were they truly inanimate, or in a sense - did they live otherwise, with their lifespan simply too large to comprehend. Clouds. He must be going insane. And then. What of the moon they so hid in their embrace? From the sight of what he himself - man that he was - considered living. Did the moon wax and dance in some wild folly, when these creatures down below could not stare? Only the pitter, patter of the rain gave an answer. He inched ever further, a hand going to his knife - why his knife? There were no devils here no-no-no! No prowling fallacies of the world. There was only him. Him and the house… The House of Names. Him and that old, glimmering gold - yellow gold. He had forgotten that candelabra, sweat coated his left hand as he slowly loosened his grip over the item, and went forth, with a candelabra with no candles, up the shivering steps of the staircase. Everywhere were old things, scraps of papers left to rot on the floor, nails on one side, chairs and seats of worn wood. Stacks of candles set against a wall, like pale, silent silhouettes. A chessboard with only a king. And a red door, that stood beyond the upper room. Pitter, patter went the rain. But the man could not understand the rain. The door was ultimately locked, and solidly at that. No forcing he could muster without alerting the vicinity would prob open the great, mocking lock that held the red door tightly in place. He slid his fingers over the grain of the door, feeling those strange indentations that marked it, and could not devise those inscriptions his eyes turned into unbecoming syllables as he strained them. He wordlessly kept sliding his fingers unto the door with the confusion that the shadows gifted, and before he knew it, he was attempting to read the wall. He stepped back, and cursed. Perhaps the strange fellow that had lived here had left with his most precious belongings ? It was a most plausible explanation, but it would never excuse the strange passing of the man that had previously lived here, and the threat of his return. The other rooms had little to offer but for scrolls he could not read and beds which the rats had been at - though none were to be seen. He took up one dusty tome whose title he believed read The Second [he did not know the word] of Men, opened it at random and glanced dimly at some strange design, blinked and cast it down to rot. Pitter, patter. But that was not the rain. Why, that was the sound of soft footsteps, lurking, coming. The rustling of a frame, and a voice too low to be heard along with a strange smell. The thief froze. He held his breath and his right leg came to a sudden shudder under the duress of his plight. He stared back towards the staircase - something was amiss. But what was he to care, for there came again that unmistakable, pitter, patter of legs which did not hail from the rain. And then he saw it. There came mellow light from the room bellow, light that was cast past those high arches of the main hall, so small and yet ever present, in the drowning shadows of the House of Names. And then he saw it, illuminated ever so slightly it sat against the wall in all of its splendour, everywhere. It filled him with fright as it littered the very walls, and he began blinking, half expecting it to vanish - to be banished - and for a moment he thought it did. He barreled towards the wall, brought forth his weight against a window and crashed into the dusty thing, frame sprawling against the mud of the streets, scampering back up to his feet, glancing back - glancing at the high window and skirling, moldy cloth before losing himself to the depths of the streets, launching himself against the side of a nook, the rain casting it’s orbs of rain down the against the small roof that hid him from the clouded sky, clutching a candelabra that would emit no light against his chest. It was yellow. Pitter, patter.

”Degenerates must die.” said one OLD man.

“Cringe chungus” said the scholar in return

Jean shrugged as he sighted the document – scrapping his own version of the battle in the process. How sad.

”SUTICAAAAAAAANS.” Screams an angry figure.

Name: Silly Sullivan OOC USERNAME: Jentos Allegience: Poor fuckin’ infantry Skill (low, medium, high): Medium

A foreign scholar murmurs a blessing to a writhing elven figure, crucified on a blackened cross.

THE SCHOOLMAN Saint-Loup. It sat far. Far. In the East of Arcas, in the East of Aeldin there dreamt Saint-Loup. In silence, lit under a treacherous moon, and corpses in the sky it slept. And there was held the Manse; a building built from the very scripture of the damned. In those halls were raised those who dared. But what kind of man would dare tempt the very God with sin? There slept Saint-Loup, and the House of Fir. It stood there in the east, a throbbing wound in the eyes of Kastafir’ei. A mark amongst the world, reflecting the very echoes of the sun, as it’s red, wretched fingers were glimpsed in the morning dawn, crimson and veiled under a thin veil of clouds. The sun came, and for once stood silent. The sun did not scream, did not howl, limbs did not extend from its horrid, unseemly façade, it’s long, twisted fingers did not point. And the dead did not speak. They did not damn. Kastafir’ei; The Schoolman. The Schoolman was found, seated at his desk among the silent amenities of the keep he haunted. His frame still, eyes hooded. And within, the flesh desired. It was a disgusting thing that swelled within him, a divine reprimand, a holy communion. It was sacrifice, the flagellation. Clear as day the devil in the well had tempted his hand. Whispering black things as the moon rose. He could not bear to look at it in it’s pale embrace… It was a beautiful thing, and it seemed almost, as if for a moment, that the clouds that rolled past were in fact behind it. His frame shook, spasmed. He nearly fell to his feet. A hush thrummed within the walls, a scream of void amongst utter nothingness. A silence so deep only the dead could conjure. The place was riddled with the dead. Why, the very keep was aptly named; The Shelf of Skulls. Some were noticeably newer, their paleness was noticeable in the morning light. But some dared little conceal their age, cocky in their gait, in their crumbling texture and flaking remnants. There they stood, a stark reminder of the fate of all things… Une danse macabre. He looked at his very lying flesh, and the Schoolman hated. And yet, the Schoolman saw. He had seen with his very eyes not miracle, not sorcery, why, God do spare me the poor fool had seen scripture. And what a wretched thing that had been! Why, he had evaded the wine, the spells, cants and even the bowels… The very well of the Manse, a living, murdering library which it had become… With it’s whispering, ever-chanting Ministers and Black Cardinals. Tell me, since when has the cardinal turned into a raven? Since when, did a holy man become more… Oh, ever so more than holy… As a matter of fact, holy has a rather delectable taste to it, the very word rings as it is spared from the lips’ embrace. A sweet taste, sweeter still to hear. And the Schoolman, who could ever doubt his holiness? Who could ever… Oh, the poor, poor fool. Why, even his name was wrong…

holy ******* ****. considering i was a practitioner of awakened blood and found it somewhat lacking – this is a simplified and yet superior version. Spells are now restricted to be used outside of combat, and the option of failing a ritual is – c-co-COOM WORTHY. I feel like all other magic lores should take example of this piece and how it suggests and relies on rituals and actually seem to add depth and mystery to the somewhat trashy lore this server has suffered over the years. Truly, it makes magic, magic.

memes aside i dont completely disagree with the fact that this was nerfed to the ground, however I still believe there should be a combat utility for this magic, even if considerably weaker than its previous iteration. but then also voidal magic kinda cringe...

Please please please remove the giant lovecraftian fish monster pet. It’s absolutely horrible friend. Not that I dislike the idea, but it’s completely broken. It’s like the Lur world issue – you literally get a magical enhanced olog that is subservient to you (whereas ologs are idiots and might fail commands). Not to mention that this piece seems to desires some kind of eldritch substance, but misses the point entirely. The fear of the unknown is cast aside when I can just call one of dead mom’s kids to come squash the big boy roleplayers harming my sutican friends :*. Rather than using these as ologs, I would have them be some sort of messengers or harbingers that might only be used for a certain amount of time by an ST, so to prevent abuse.

A wretched, mismatched olog under the name of Gatz let out a rumblink shriek, arms raised up the Heavens, it’s vacant, beady eyes veiny and filled with joy. A horrible noise rumbled deep from the olog’s throat; a noise that might very well have been a laugh.