Morigung-oog
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Posts posted by Morigung-oog
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Player has undergone the Mystic ritual soul transmutation and has changed subclass from mystic blade to mystic conjurer, thus reverting them back to Tier 1.
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3 hours ago, sam33497 said:
Az'rekash heard her speak from many miles away.
"Bahahahahahaha!!" he replied.
What was originally shared reciprocated laughter gradually transitioned into something far more apprehensive.
"Bahah- You're joking... Right?"
Valindra, herself, took one look at the missive and shrugged from the comfort of her own home.
"... I've officially retired from saving the cosmos. Younger, stupider, goody two-shoes magi, this one's on you."
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Barrowlord Fornotos grimaces.
"Fear the Old Dark."
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Accepted.
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Accepted.
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Player has taken on the subtypes Movement and Word, taking up one additional MA slot.
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Valindra sips on a cocktail while relaxed back 'pon a lounger on the beaches of Haelun'or. Briefly did the former blade of the Royarch read over the contents over their glowing sunLIGHTglasses, before pushing them back up the bridge of her nose with the side of her glass. A butler then took the missive and, per the orders of the rogue Nullivari, tossed it into the sea. Valindra adjusted her Orrar era Haelun'orian Hawaiian shirt, and leaned back, basking under the eclipsed sun in the darkness, illuminated only by torches and lanterns.
".. Jee'vess. Where is my moontanning lotion?"
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- Popular Post
- Popular Post
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This is a vision that only those able to view prophecies can see. This includes shamans with farsight, Mystics with Hexing, Seers, Naztherak and Naz-touched who have been inscribed with the boon that allows one to view prophecy. For more information on prophecies, click here.
In the prelude to your enlightenment, the reasons for viewing that which lies ahead are entirely your own. Whether you seek to scry upon the death of Xan, seeking answers in a crystal ball or simply decide to head for bed for the day, you find yourself pulled from the realm of consciousness quite abruptly, your body reeling as your mind leaves it behind, your vision starts to swirl and churn sickeningly and the surroundings you’d placed yourself in fading from sight.
...
It begins with not darkness, nor the flames of the hells, or even cryptic warnings of damnation. Instead, your vision is entirely overcome by a light so powerful, it may as well have been the only light in the world. True radiant, beautiful, stifling light in its purest, most captivating form. It starts off soothing, comforting, banishing the shadows that once dwelled within the corners of your vision, almost akin to a warm embrace, shielding your feeble frame from horrors innumerous.
A wave of unease washes over you, one that the light seems to register. This is not right, this is not your own calm. That once welcoming light grows more intense, and you feel your eyes begin to sting. That calming sensation, or rather the effort to impart it is doubled, no, tripled, yet all you feel is a growing sense of dread trying to pull you away from the siren’s song of tranquility. All too quickly, it becomes obvious. It is forcing you to like it, whatever the source may be, that once benevolent presence turning all too quickly to a controlling one. You fight, you struggle with every ounce of your being, yet it was not enough. While you are truly alone, it will never be enough..
You may fight for minutes, or hours, though eventually, you come to the harrowing realization that you are only prolonging the inevitable.
It will claim you.
Your breath catches, and whether you brace, or beg for mercy, it draws nearer.
You await your fate.
It never arrives.
That burning light is consumed not by flame, but by darkness.
...
The shadows once creeping at the corner of your spotted vision do not seem so quite so menacing now. After enduring the shackles of light, the dark comforts you, or rather tries to. Once more, your emotions are your own. For better or for worse, they are in your control. You examine your new surroundings, in a brief scan; this is not true darkness, you ascertain, for off in the distance, an impossible distance, lies an even greater darkness. This one, like the light, unnerves you whether you'd like it or not.
Standing to the side of the far less threatening dark you find yourself in, which feels more akin to a cooling shade beneath a tree in a desert, is a figure, their head dipped ever so slightly, not in worship or reverence, but true unfettered, untarnished respect to a peculiar construct. A rift not to the void, nor the Ebrietaes, the hells, or even the planes of gods, but to somewhere else entirely, one of partly mortal creation and one that lingers beyond immortal reach in the Material Plane towers before them much like the figure does over you.
"The Sunlit Lord lies dead.
Those shackled by his will lie defeated, their resolve shattered.
Like many before them, their god has abandoned them."
A choral, cacophonous voice emanating seemingly from that figure rang out through the chamber, everywhere at the same time, all could hear, this was undeniable. It spoke with no malevolence, though still made no effort at sounding comforting, lingering somewhere between. Neutrality, balance, with that, a wish to impart truth. Your eyes well with tears, the light had hurt, burned and seared, yet in time, you were recovering.You know not why, but your attention veers off to the side, and there you see it; a mass, limp and lifeless. Its radiant glow had dimmed, and further flickered. The light it once blindingly emitted seemed to dull, the searing heat you once felt, undoubtedly inflicted by this creature, dying out. Upon closer examination, you ascertain that this is a predator, a lion with a shimmering, sun kissed complexion. Once able to prowl without fear of being preyed upon, it now lies dead, its fur singed with a flame that never truly extinguished and the imprint of a draconic army scorched along its body, a tapestry of its demise.
"A half-truth revealed.
His mortal followers not villains…
But victims to the whims of the divine.
Their godly influence imbues them with ignorance.
They feared their own liberation."
Once more you turn, an action sparked by your gut, pure instinct. Confusion festers within your mind, yet eases in part when you see those clad in divine armor, shackled by golden chains to the corpse of that charred lion, the one king of beasts, emperor of order. Their wails, screams and pleas echo out as those chains shattered, causing agony, yet liberating them from their eternal servitude from one who had refused to release his grasp until his dying breath. Some accept the breaking of these shimmering shackles, leaving behind no connection to the scorched lion, though others fight. Their own chains remain, yet dull until they are naught but a faint outline of what they once were. Once stood in a patch illuminated by golden mists and blinding light, they fall, one by one, landing not in the darkness you find yourself in, but out of sight, elsewhere entirely."An Aengul lies dead, and the world is fractured.
The immortals refuse to come to our aid…
They abandon us in our time of need as they so often do.
Ignorant to the wounds of man, many of which they have inflicted.
Still, they ignore the pleas of their servants to save them.
Once more does it fall to mortalkind to repair the damage sown."
Your pulse races, and you blink. For a few, fleeting moments, you are not in that endless chamber, but among the streets of many towns at once, mirrors of their real counterparts. Some you recognise, some you do not, likely belonging to continents outside of Aevos. Panic reigns supreme, sometimes made more obvious through riots and meetings, other times kept quiet, seeking to downplay the events that had unfolded but a few weeks ago. You see it, though, in the backs of their minds, they are scared. You know why, it is clear. Divines seldom fall, yet now the sun himself has met his end. His peers refuse to act.What will follow? Who, if any, will seek to replace him? Will they be benevolent, or take order to its extremities in the form of tyranny? Will the Betrayer, seeing one of his greatest adversaries fall, seek to make a play of his own? With descendant-kind and beyond at eachothers’ throats, who will be the bulwark that shields the realm from true evil? Xan was not perfect, yet still, he fought. His soldiers fought.
"We warned you once, of the folly of aengudaemonica.
We do not blame you for not heeding us.
You did what you thought was right.
Our order knew what awaited, and we have been preparing,
Not to fight but to mend the wounds of the remnant man.
Perhaps you see it now, they care not for you.
They never truly did."
Once more, you sit in that chamber, now much closer to the figure. Off in the distance, true darkness seemed to draw away, repelled, and the end delayed. The being turned, its steel visage, a masked gaze hiding its true expression. Regardless of your path, your creed, it peers down upon you with a neutral kindness, understanding your struggles, your worries of the unraveling events, radiating a calm likely previously unseen amidst the struggle and fear. Their armor was tarnished and rusted from overuse, though carried still clearly upon its surface a number of murals. A withered tree, a broken sword, a shadowed flame, an obsidian sun. You realize it now, but the figure is not towering above you due to their height, you are instead on your knees, not in prayer, but forced unto such by the light that has now long since been repelled. The gauntleted hand of the priest extends down towards you, an offer to aid you to your feet.
"What has been broken will be repaired,
Not by the meddling of gods, but by remnant MAN
In a manner befitting of the scorned descendants.
Calor Mors shall not yet claim its dues.
Radiant is the Black Sun."
Whether you choose to accept the aid or not, you begin to pull yourself to your feet, choosing to rise in the face of adversity as mortalkind always did, regardless of the threat they faced.
Just as you near a full stand, you awaken from your vision, drenched in a cold sweat. You feel no forced dread, nor comfort, as though the one who had imparted the vision unto you had given you the true freedom of letting your heart decide for itself.
An offer had been extended, but the decision was yours and yours alone.
SpoilerXionists are cooking.
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Me on my way to counter eminents by putting by putting random objects in their mouths.
For people interested here is my top 10 of eminent countering objects.
10 - A smelly orcish owned sock
9- Cactus Green Brownies
8- Krugtucky fried chicken
7- Cupcakes but exclusively made with out of date ingredients.
6- Spam
5- A brick. Just a random brick.
4- Flour- it doubles as a smokescreen
3- A cactus for extra damage
2- A live fish
1- A copy of the canonist scrolls.
Checkmate, voidal NERDS.
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The First Watcher stirs amidst their soul-shackled slumber… Yet she did not rouse.
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"It was almost too good to be true, a retirement without a hitch." Valindra Nullivari, Blade of the Royarch had pondered to herself initially after receiving word of a successor announced but weeks prior. So often had she and the Prince conversed of his reign, and his wishes against rising to the throne, the hopes of living out his days in peace dashed by a prophecy of doom. She had always assured him he would reach retirement and she would be the sword that struck down the Ibarellen's foretelling of his own demise. Even when she herself could not and would not set foot in elcihicelia, she would find a way to ensure his safety, though she often mourned... No matter how safe he was, how much he achieved, he always seemed struck down by some form of sorrow, or a want to simply do more. To him, it was not enough, it would never be enough.
Valindra felt much like a mentor to Illthrak, though often she found herself being taught by the royarch inversely. It was a humbling experience.
Word of his death would initially reach Valindra who stood in the depths of a library, a note handed to her by a spectral servant who was promptly and coldly dismissed. The warped, star-speckled gaze of the 'aheral widened. So often had she walled herself off to emotions, an nigh impenetrable fortress within her mind she'd sought to erect, yet in that moment, it all came crashing down in a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability. He had been a friend, though all of her shortcomings, failures, attacks and outbursts, he knew of secrets she daren't share with even her family and still, he accepted her, understood her loyalty and what she had initially forsaken to ensure she could support him. Tears laced with fel, ectoplasmic mists rolled down her cheeks, and from them, the likeness of a spectral hand came to clasp over her mouth, forbidding her from sobbing. A discussion shared within the depths of her soul sealed the encounter. The eyes Valindra, glossed over, shifting to that of a hollow, empty stare, even the stars iris within her irises seemed to dim.. For a moment, she appeared as naught but a husk, though that spectral hand previously commanding silence, shifted to rest upon her shoulder before merging with her form anew.
"S l e e p, little spellblade.."
A voice echoed out in her mind, cold, deep and yet a soothing stoicism amidst the barrage of emotions breaking down her very being. It commanded, and she obeyed. Sleep, she did and in that slumber did she find the peace of absence.
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Minutes later, Barrowlord Fornotos was seen floating around the Synod, deep in thought.. With one of their selves shackled and suppressed, they sought to repair the imbalance they'd self-imposed in the place of experiencing the anguish of loss.
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OOC
SpoilerNot what I expected to log onto. I almost fried my laptop typing out this reaction but I HAD to. Illthrak was a good friend of V's and they had a number of both silly and serious encounters that honestly made RP somewhat tolerable. A sad end but a fitting one.
Fr you've come so far as an rper, from Atheleon to NLing Celia'nor. OOC retirement from it well earned imo. I'm looking forward to your next character.
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“Interesting..” Remarked a Lord in her own right, standing vigil over her people’s’ stronghold. A missive sat within their gauntleted grasp, intertwined with fel mists that aged the paper to little more than a pile of dust once it’s contents were properly digested. Barrowlord Fornotos seemed neither happy, nor truly sorrowful. A short life did the Queen of Petra experience yet one with more substance than elves could truly appreciate. The soul of the human had departed in a blaze of glory and ferocity in a manner most pure, and to the Herald of Strife, there was no end quite so beautiful as one with true purpose.
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An old friend of the weary prince read the missive not only with solemnity, but relief that the burden thrusted unto Illthrak's shoulders would soon be lifted. A bird found its way into the palace with a note carrying only a simple message, yet no less meaningful in spite of such.
Spoiler"Princeling,
Perhaps you may finally live that once distant dream you once told me of. I told you you'd survive. You had me to protect your hide, after all. I am your blade even still. Congratulations, I am happy for you; now your right to rest looms on the horizon; let none stop you from claiming such, if that is what you so wish.
You did good.
-Val."
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The issue is buffing ranged weapons would require work to balance other ranged-related mechanics, tbh I’m indifferent.
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Valindra Ashwood wondered.
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An ‘aheral, intrigued by the culture, readied her writing supplies. She would seek to learn more.
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Valindra pondered visiting the Sheikhdom. For as long as she could remember, the Qalasheen had been nothing but kind to her, perhaps it was time to repay that kindness…
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Valindra would be a fullblown Molotov cocktail or absinthe
Aaun would not be its own drink but it would be a drop of rum that goes in a bunch of other drinks,
Haense would be Vodka or Carrion Black
Balian would be orange juice
Haelun'or would be white wine, though they'd want to be a fullbodied red.
Celia'nor would be some strange white-wine cocktail that swears it doesn't taste like wine but does..
Krugmar is Guzzoline. Can and will kill you and your liver.
The druids would be a bloody mary, I think.
Halflings would try to replicate the taste of weed in a drink- it wouldn't be strong, but it'd definitely be more than booze.
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An ancient mali empathized with the lament of her once enemy turned friend, and with her, she mourned. She once sailed the seas the Py'lrie so loved, but had now taken to voyages of the stars. Even amidst her extra-planar adventures as copious and frequent as they were, Valindra Nullivari found the time to make a show of solidarity. In the dead of night, with only the stars as witness was a note slid between the bars or the Py'lyrie estate.
"The path of the forlorn can rob you of nigh all but your mind. Fear not; do not lose hope, oem'ii. It is written in the stars, forever fated that we shall meet again. -V"
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An ancient Planeswalker and crowned regent of the Scions of Ebrietaes pondered from afar. Her banishment had been instated years ago, yet was to no detriment of her own. Where once she dwelled among the most insufferable of mortals she now danced with ageless and parlayed with Gods. Her gaze, reminiscent of the deepest clutches of the void, yet twice as harsh still, drifted towards the chalice sat within her grasp, an elven skull fashioned into an object of her own convenience at the expense of one so innocent yet at no true cost of her own. A soft sip was taken from the contents, crimson in hue.. Yet not blood, no... For she had not yet nor would she ever truly cave to the savagery of mindless eternals. Only after a few smacks of those darkened lips and the taste of the full-bodied wine was savoured did she query from atop her throne to her subjects and equals, beings wrought of bone, and flesh, both living and otherwise, and amalgamations of stone and ectoplasm.
"One can't help but wonder, was it worth it?"
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Several days later, when the regal alter ego of the magus had caught up on some much needed beauty sleep, Valindra Nullivari, not Barrowlord Fornotos looked upon the missive with a bittersweet smile. Such had been expected and had been a long time coming, though no doubt the Starlit State would feel the sting of yet another loyal citizen forced out from inaction.
"Butter my buttocks and call me a biscuit, we are dropping like flies, no?"
The Nullivari mused with a faint snort of amusement. Little mind was yet paid to the civilians who had turned her away, yet a shard of worry had embedded deep within the 'aheral for her longtime friend who ruled and was sure to try to shoulder his peoples' burden and the prophet planeswalker who diligently worked as damage control.
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An ancient mali smiled the black sun’s smile…
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Valindra
AtmoriceAshwood rubs her chin.
A cool breeze rolls through the ruins of Fenn...
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From afar, an ancient being stirs, pondering whether she too will be put under legal duress over the shortcomings of her once allies.
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An ancient arch-magi turned spellblade arches a brow…
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Eye for an Eye.
in Miscellany
Posted
"Good luck in killing that which is already dead.."
Barrowlord Fornotos, Herald of Stride and named of Mordring did sigh, slamming a gauntleted palm to their face... Despite their greatest efforts, the streets were empty and the ranks of the Synod barren. Gashadokuro would likely have more time beating the life out of a corpse.
"Oh."
They then remarked in surprise as the words on the paper shifted before her very eyes.