Jentos

Jagobert remembers last seeing King John return to Auun. It had been in a casket, after Gaspard slew him in single combat. But magic had a way of denying even the consequences of the sword.

"Don't worry, I'll handle them Mr. General." said Jagobert as he lurched from his seat at the tavern groggily, crossbow in hand.

« Poor uncrowned Queen. Your people are united only so they might be left to die in your stead. And now that you’ve tasted the bitter price of war, you admit your black dream of genocide? Drink, Sybille - the cup grows bitter still. » So spoke the one-eye’d warrior Jagobert to seemingly no one but himself.

Jagobert plunged his burning sword down the struggling body of a fallen knight, extinguishing the flames that coated it -- the smell of burnt blood palpable.

what about morning wood?

I can't presume to know your position on pillar camping, but an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. My friend related to me how they Ss'd somewhere and were instantly met with four *swings sword* emotes. In any case it should remain non-allowed.

The title "Lord of the Craft" presupposes the presence of a Lord of the Craft, but how far are people willing to take it in order to achieve power? I think the janitorial moderation department made a mistake by allowing the camping of SS pillars in the past few days, Now beyond the fact that the rules clearly outline how camping the SS pillar is illegal, the simple fact of 4-5 guys waiting by a pillar with pre-prepared emotes waiting for the unconscious individual to teleport to it is in my opinion problematic, unfair, and silly. I don't see any good argument for it, it just feels very abusive and detrimental to the sort of "fair play" you'd want to make this esteemed Minecraft roleplaying server better. 60th we know you LOVE gooning but pls see reason

SILENCE AENGULITE QUADRUPLE SNAKE BARRAGE

god . . . im feeling kinda full after this one -- WAITER, WAITER! more spell additions please!!!

can't believe he rewrote both AZDRAZI and VARGS in a single lore piece . . .

Jagobert fairly howled from his horse, casting his burning sword to the sky. Death would rain.

Tor-Praeth. The Nephilim Prince, the An-Gho, sat broken on the roots of a great tree growing from the ash. A great, smoking great-sword leaned on the stiff trunk of the Thinking-Tree. The library where the tree grew was silent. Wordlessly, he brooded, reckoning with the events of the prior day. So close to victory, he thought. And yet so far . . . He turned his gaze to the East.

“I wonder if that lady and man will ever be let into the Pearly gates.” Said a thrice-damned Azdrazi

"Please azdromoth, if you can hear us, please save us Azdromoth." The An-Gho began to pray shortly before the tentacled undead began flinging him around.

The sun rose. They rode. The Children of the Titan fairly cried out in exultation. They cast up their fists, sang in their tongue to the sky. They were a band of serpentine men, with serpentine tongues and serpentine eyes. Joined were they by the band of Ut'turvioth, his herald; and his many accomplices. And together, They rode. They rode for the city of the Pharaoh, Atemu-Ta. For he had declared war. And their honour demanded it be satiated. In their fortress, they had known the many traps that laid before them through a spy in the ranks of Atemu. All manner of potions, a trapped bridge, and columns of the temple meant to explode and collapse on them. And they were outmanned. That they were. The city of Pharaoh was in storm. Rain fell, thunder cried. Ut'torvioth, the leal brother of the An-Gho, was directed to take the wall while the An-Gho, and his other brave compatriots went to the temple wall. They had snuck there -- where the pharaoh and his bronze elves awaited. The battle was fierce, an exchange of arrows and spells. Sorcery was sung from deep voices by the Nephilim, they had cast up their hands, called out, weaved spears and orbs of brilliant flames. Lightning was called down. Psalms were sung. But an odious pact had been formed. Indirectly or not, the Pharaoh had made an unorthodox deal he would meant to exploit. The Gates had fallen. The Nephilim rushed down the aqueducts of the city to reach the temple. The soldiers of Atemu all lain slain or defeated. Prisoners were drawn in chains to Tor-Praeth by their lieutenant, Kairos. Those who were not taken met more miserable ends, though never so miserable as those left in the black cells. When the city itself had been taken, only the temple remained. Fire swept the streets. Blood drained down marble steps. Incantations swept the air with mad intensity. Line between Seen and Unseen were blurred. Only the temple. The blasted temple. With its cow-headed goddess. Hesthor. But a foul pact had been cast. He could barely remember. When he threw himself down into the temple with his burning sword, the An-Gho had been blasted, shrapnel and pieces of steel discharged from a cannon had sent him reeling. Then all was blur. He saw Urneilor brandishing his great flaming halberd against the bronze-elves like some hero of old. At the forefront, Vahlok, with mouth ablaze, struck blow after blow despite so many wounds. Then something big slithered, something large took him. Something that wasn't alive. He thought he would lose consciousness - bask into death, lose his corporeal form. But then he heard it. And he woke. The laughter. Unmistakable. Gashadokuro. Gashadokuro! Foul, wretched, red lisped lich! Without knowing, the Pharaoh had made deals with an old orc that was only stolen skin. Beneath it lay a new king. One of red bones, and forbidden fire. Gashadokuro. The one who'd steal the throne from Iblees given the chance. When Gashadokuro laughed, all sense was lost. All was a blur. Screams. The smell of black sorcery. The feel of it. One could taste it in the air. The ring of steel. Cries. Pillars brought down by undead monstrosities. Raven's black sword shattered by a writhing tentacle. Urneilor wrestling and kicking a bronze-clad foe. Then he was being carried. No. Pushed. Vahlok before him was torn to shreds by a cannon driven before him. His frame was broken -- ash leaking from wounds, and was rendered into a pile of empty armour. He had been destroyed so he might persist. Strange, how he himself too was immortal -- but he supposed, it was a matter of honour. Of pride. No, his kin died that day from love. Not the empty one of romance, but one of friendship, kinship, and brotherhood. There was something warming in that fact, but the An-Gho never got to enjoy it. They ran. And they fled. They had reduced the city to chaos and disparity. They'd taken the streets, slaughtered where it was they went. But Gashadokuro had come, and stolen victory from their hands. And now not even the Pharaoh owned his streets. And neither did we. A herald was pulled down into the black depths. Another lost, another sacrifice. They gave the day to Gashadokuro. And so, unto the next. They rode. The sun fell. "I did not make silence that day. No. I made a storm. Despite my broken body, I cannot wait for the next." ~The An-Gho

Arrow after arrow, Jagobert loosed from his great bow, his gaze a single eye that seemed almost serpentine in the light. Time and time again, he darted between trees, while the disassembled armies of the Coalition chased after an army that seemed made of smoke. As the battle came to a close, the man could be seen praying over the dead men, black shafts protruding from Haensemen like cruel reeds.

From the desert, Gatz'Raguk would grimace at the notion of such feeble-mindedness from the Nordrling race. He grated the edge of his knife on his tusk, and spat.

The Third Eye’s Declaration To the scions of Azdromoth Wind blew harshly in the northern wastes. Here and there, the cry of hawks circling high above. There, the crash of dark waves over great tumults of rock. Smoke rose from a great pit in a mountain of fire, drawn like endless rolling designs by the wind. Red Mountain. Jog’Oth. This was the name the race of the nephilim knew the mountain as. They resided by its center, deep in its belly of fire where a fortress they’d carved from black stone hanging over a red great mirror. Tor-Praeth. The hanging tower. There were bricks inlaid in the foundation that were older than they. Drawn from old realms from the ziggurats of their King, ferried on ships, and used to make their burning temples. It was strange how their temples screamed with colour and meaning, as much as they dwelt in silence. Every footfall in the temple of Tor-Praeth resounded. Every movement was reflected unto the polished red tiles by the firelight. Every act was spied, as much by the flames, as much by the silent stone remains of the dead Nephilim standing in their shrines. The bells chimed. But not that day. Every fire was extinguished but the blue flames of the kiln. The candles stood, pale and dead all about. Every footfall was dulled. That day, a shadow - an emptiness, dwelt in the Temple halls. And in the place where the stone remains of Bodakur had dwelt, was nothing but smashed rubble. Bodakur, who had been found in their room, alone – turned to stone. There had been a sadness, in that face of stone. And to see Bodakur now smashed to pieces was like torment. What greater crime could there be against one’s memory? One by one, every candle was re-lit. One by one, every fire was rekindled. He could not reassemble the remains of his dead brother. But he could honour their memory. He could remember them. He could keep Bodakur in his heart, as he did every lost nephilim, every lost story, every dead, every one that had been forgotten by time but to him. In a way, this is why the Prince remained. In honour to the dead. And in service, in eternal service. There was such melancholy in him. Such memories. There was a pain that was ever unspoken. Heralds were put under trauma, broken, singed and tormented. They were tested and put before an inch of their life. Why? Because the Soul must be ready. Not all souls are fit to mantle Dragon. Not all can tolerate it. Why do elves go mad? Because the Soul can only tolerate so much, remember so much, hold so much. Like a cup, it began to overflow. Meaning, the An-Gho knew, had tangible weight. Power. It was different, for the dragons - if only one had the capacity to mantle their blood and their soul correctly, they would never overflow. And the An-Gho had been ready. Made ready. He had been broken so many times in his prior existences. This is why the tears he had ever shed could be counted on one’s fingers. A prophet weeps only when the time is right. Every act must be measured. Every movement, every thought, the production of a thousand calculations and a myriad of revelations. Impossible knowledge sometimes meant the impossibility to act. But not for him. Not for the Third-Eye. Enlightenment moved him as much as the arm which swung the sword. With a word, every candle cindered into bursting life. Song thrummed in the temple halls. With a wave of his arms the fires began to dance, and he stepped before the hanging altar of the Arch-Drakaar. “Oh Father. You who are the light. You are Justice. The way and the sword. You are the shadow, which kneels the World.” The Third-Eye knelt before the kiln of fire within the tabernacle. Black hands were raised wreathed in blood. There was a guttural noise from the depths of his frame - an inhuman call, a resounding sound that redefined what it meant to speak, and what it meant to know. It was a language like no other, one of rock and fire, something serpentine, something primeval and ancient. And above all, it was a call, a cry. Something to beget an answer. The Third-Eye spake impossible words before the dancing flames. He spoke the words. “SHAR AZAR’DUL.” Sorcerous light shone from between his lips. The light of this eyes waxed. His kneeling frame seemed to waver left and right as if in a whirling dance. After his ritual act, he stilled. Mid-day came, and the bells rang. He stared upon the flames. His Third-Eye burned brightly. The bells rang. He stared. The day came and the day went. And he did not stir. The bells rang once more. He did not eat. He stared. He did nor stir. The bells rang. The Third-Eye waited. He did not stir. He did not eat. He stared upon the flames. He stared. The Third-Eye stared. He did not eat. The bells rang. The Third-Eye was crossed legged before the flames. Days had passed and he had not stirred. But he stared on, lost in ministrations - murmuring, praying to a thousand impossible things. It had been decades since he had heard a word. He had seen vision in the flames, clearly. He had seen such things. But never a word. Never a song. Never a vision. Azdromoth was silent. And there was great wisdom to be found in that. He rose. He faced the Inquisitor Eternal. He called. The dead stone answered. To all those who dream of fire; To the People of Azdromoth Silence is a gift. If not for silence, how shall we be heard. Let alone, how shall we hear ourselves? Through silence, do we make. Through silence, do we roar. Silence denotes a lack, an emptiness. And as all things are empty, it is for us to fill them. So thus, does the World give us vessels to fill. I called, and among the silence, the Second Eye; the Inquisitor Eternal answered; “You measure yourself by what you fill. Do not measure. Fill.” I have stared in the fires of our Temple, I have pierced the black gaze of the obsidian ball, I have conversed with the Inquisitor Eternal, and I have seen what acts we must perform; I - In Three Dragon’s Days, you will meet me in Tor-Praeth. Then, we will march. And we will render the city of Atemu-Ta to silence through fire and sword. II - The children of the Four-Brothers have called for our aid. Two distinct Voidal Horrors stalk this reality. We shall answer to the best of our duty, and honour our vows of protection until stone take us. III - We shall search the lands for the remains of our fallen kin. The many-races will be interrogated, and through trade and task acquire dragon-bone and dralachite to honour the blessed metal. All those who should acquire the blessed metal shall be taught the ways of vehement smithing. IV - The remains of Bodakur have been desecrated. A crime has been committed. Retribution will be had. I say; to whomever it was, declare it, or forever be the coward dog you were meant to be. V - A century ago, the Druids of the Grove struck an agreement with me and my kind. I have not forgotten how they broke their promise. We had won their accord through the right of conquest, and we shall win it again through conquest yet still. VI - Project Ymylmagar will enter Phase II Do not rely on me, or my word, to take action. Together are we mighty. Unified, we are a tempest of fire. Arbiter, Prince, Prophet, ~The An-Gho

« A man of his word. Or rather, a man of other men’s words. » said Jagobert who knew the machinations of an outdated, worn out curia of old and bitter men. He understood that if it had not been for the brain-waves sent by angry churchmen into the mind of the pontiff mid-dialogue, the war might've been ended then and there.

Doubtless, his ancestors will be proud. Thought Jagobert. He had watched as the old man felled the first of his Uruk opponents, leaning weakly on his sword before another orc stepped forward. He recognized the wide gaze of the man then; the sight of death, pale and unescapable. Whitespire only received a headless body, in the end.

"When one is made anathema, what mercy can the one who damned them ask for?" wondered Jagobert in his deep voice.

A letter was written to the baron. "What is honour before legacy? What is promise before the books of history? I will not turn and run. I have made my oath, baron. I ride to victory or I ride to death. I ride to heaven, or I ride to hell. And for all this, I still ride. This is sacrifice, this is loyalty, and it comes with or without gain."

[!] An aging green monk wrote a letter to the Office of the Auditor from the woods. "Whether Void is inherently Ibleesian has been debated. But Ibleesian or not, the Scroll of Gospel's Book of Provenance reminds us that no place was forbidden to us but the Void (1;8). And what was it that cursed Iblees and angered God, but when the daemon fell, and touched the Void? (1;17-19). I will let your office determine the truth of this sorcerous city. You may find an elaboration of my thoughts on the Void within this work, my thesis; https://docs.google.com/document/d/1OJJ9fhNH4u0ATeXOoCKCpw5eogGxiBsPYK7avslWIBc/edit. I am, as you call, a nerd scholar. May God bless you, and all your works, - Jean." @Werew0lf