Joltastik

2 hours ago, Algoda said:

Riding out the storm eh, i'm sure it'll work as it always does.

You're not solving the root of the problem with this.

This.

Yet again, you choose to drown out the complaints with a piss-poor announcement aimed to "hype" the community out of any sort of uproar. Fool-proof, right? You've done it before, and you'll do it again.

Just remember that you're not solving anything.

Nurzum's stout frame tore past his sleeping sack as he tensely awoke from slumber. A nightmare beheld the young uruk, whose beady eyes manifested, for the first time in his very life, dread. In the midst of night, he shuffled to his cave, in which he'd aimlessly pray for enlightenment. . .  

A dead-set silence coaxed over the domain of San'Kala as night descended upon the Plains. A ruined city, left barren by the fleeing Rexdom of Krugmar. Only a bundle of transitory, night-lit tents kept vigil throughout the city's rubble, signaling the arising presence of another Entity-- The Horde of Thagûrz'Grish, perparing to reap and re-adjust the city in their image. Yet for now, the denizens of the Horde slept soundly, preparing for another working day to come. Unbeknownst to most, the fleeting sound of drums quietly resounded from atop the Goi's hill, signaling presence within the fighting pits.
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Indeed, there was, for the three warchiefs of the Horde themselves laid awake, tensely watching over a lowly figure that slouched besides the pit in rumination. Each clan leader retained a powerful sense of presence in their own sense, their stout frames stiff as stone. Nehrak'Maukta, a cunning orc whose masked figure cautiously loomed over those present; Zrhigah'Axan, a wise fe-uruk whose palms bashed against the set of booming drums, and TaKkum'Izig. . . An objectively imposing individual, whose crimson gaze constantly bared the stain of bloodlust.

And yet, who was the lumbering figure laying by the three? His protruding tusks, bared in anticipation, gave off his young age. His pale, sandy complexion gave off his heritage. Indeed, the supposed underdog must have been Nûrzum'Izig, son of Skatchnaak: the former chieftain of Izig, and the very founder of the Horde. His father's name was one to live up to, especially now, with him absent. Nonetheless, the young uruk sat in deep thought, conflicted by the actions he was about to commit.

TakKum took a sudden step forward, ushering naught but a wary gaze towards Nurzum. Despite the former Kub's subsequently tall frame, The warchief still clearly towered over him. He stood silent, metallic jaw continuously shifting.

Nurzum took a stand upon TaKkum's approach, eyes fixated upon him, bearing a restrained shimmer. With a guttural tone, he'd break the silence.

"My father is gone. . . I will finish what he started."

TaKkum's fist would press against his chest at the mention of the former chieftain. He spoke with a deep, booming voice.

"A great brother. He fought hard to get us where we are. Let us see if you are worthy.."

The proud warchief didn't waste any time, promptly jumping into the pit and reaching the end of it's borders. His voice would warp as he'd chant in old blah, offering prayers to the Spirit Leyd. In tandem, he heaved his armor pieces from his frame, throwing them aside. Nurzum followed through, repeating the warchief's actions, albeit in a tense, hurried gait.

Upon the removal of their armor, the two stood idle in the arena. The other warchiefs stood vigilant, watching the unfolding endeavor with narrowed eyes. Silence prevailed throughout the arena, only featured by the hard beating of drums. The whole frame stood static. . . At least until the drumming stopped.

"KrRuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUG!"

In a flash, the two uruks charged, issuing wild, feral roars. They slammed into one another, lunging brutal flurries of fists towards themselves, rending their hides with their tusks... The Honor Klomp was initiated, and it wouldn't stop until one of the opponents laid limp for good.

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Decimating strikes, brutal grapples, rending kicks and sprawling hooks... both sides fought perilously, seeking triumph over the esteemed rank of warchief, as well as their very lives. For a moment, it seemed that the larger TaKkum had the edge, his fist slammed against Nurzum's exposed ribcage in all it's might. The pain of several broken ribs drove the youngling into shock, a bloodshot hue befalling his sockets, sending him into a bloodrage... one in which he'd lose all grasp on sanity. As if blessed by Enrohk himself, he'd lunge towards the other uruk, smiting his frame with crippling blows and bites, finally sending the warchief to the ground.

"Do not Spare me. . ." He managed to usher, massive visage brought to a knee.

"Y-you. . . Are as great as your father. . . DO YOUR JO-.."

TaKkum's voice was suddenly cut out by the blood-enraged uruk's sudden motion. Nurzum threw himself upon the weakened one, tusks embedding into his gutlet, cleaving and gnawing through TaKkum's neckside in a bloody, brutalizing show of violence. TaKkum's body was quick to expire, blood gushing out of his ripped neck-- forming a daunting pool of ichor. He died an honorable death. That of a warrior.

As for Nurzum. . . He'd slowly gain consciousness with each bite, cursed rage quenched by the blood shed before him. He'd find himself on top of his opponent's cadaver with a blank expression, maw dripping with the blood of his victim. Slowly, he'd get up and limp towards the other warchiefs, as to join them as one.

The three slowly walked towards the edge of the hill, watching over the ruined city... There was no time for reflecting. After all, there is much to be done...

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5 hours ago, WuHanXianShi14 said:

The "September Prince Eco-Prosperity sphere" is actually territory of the orcish horde of Izig now, the old krugmar capital was given to them

The former capital of Krugmar was given to the Horde of Thagurz'Grish by The Dominion. Whether it's gonna be lost to that weird ass autumn frog god is to be seen.

“Hexers never die in their beds. . .” Sighard murmurs, awaiting his brother within the hexicanum in the skies.

The very kub of the supposed whitewash hears of the news, comparing the execution of his paternal figure with the Rex's pathetic ordeal within the Dominion. He blinks in mild confusion, as both of them are still alive!

Silence. Naught but peace and silence enveloped the Dominion's dense forestry, as the faint hum of nature lingered on. The undisturbed wilderness painted an idyllic picture, though unfortunately, that was not to last..

Frantic huffs. Panting. The sound of shriveled bushes kicked to the side as a dirtied, grizzled Mali' ran into the peaceful frame. His clothes were torn, though the distraught elf cared not. He ran and ran in panicked demeanor, taking no account of his surroundings-- instead seeking only safety from whatever came after him. Meanwhile, plenty of paces back, thick boots struck against the dense underbrush, as a well-equipped figure stomped on. Tufts of puffy smoke trailed after his broad visage, as a sloppily-rolled cigar hung from his mouth.

The supposed man pulled his cloak back, revealing a disfigured set of features, cast apart by various scars of past endeavors. Perhaps they signaled experience, or maybe incompetence, the only thing certain being the objectively unsettling nature of these lesions. His hair, once black as coal, was now littered with white strands; a clear sign of old age. His eyes, of a faded grey, had a strange glint to them-- signaling the consumption of some sort of narcotic, or perhaps elixir. Of course, that was a clear given, as his nostrils still held the residue of a strange powder. Nevertheless, he walked onwards with extreme diligence, eyes stuck to the ground; following the very tracks left by the Mali'.

He came to an abrupt, albeit brief stop, as to check his equipment. A well-oiled arbalest was tightly held in his grasp. Two sword scabbards hung from the back of his baldric-- each holding prized swords. One of Aurum. One of Steel. From his belt, several gimmicks hung. A pouch filled with firecrackers. A lowly scroll, kept within short-reach. A crude, iron hook, predominantly kept for a hunter's trophy. There was no doubt about it, the old man was prepared, and as he assured himself of this one last time, he resumed his stride. 

The hunter incoherently mumbled to himself as the tracks led him to a clearing, readying a bolt which he'd promptly tuck within the arbalest's wooden frame. As he did so, the sight of a hunched, kneeling individual diverted his gaze, and he set on carefully approaching it. It was, without a doubt, the fleeing Elf.

"P-. . .Please. . . leave me be. . I did nothing. ." The distraught Mali' pleaded, facing away from the Hunter. The man ushered no response, eyes kept unto the prey as he worked at the crossbow's stirrup. Something was off, though, mostly prevalent within the exhausted Elf's voice.

"G-. . Go away. . .Please. . . Now!" The elf called on, though his voice seemed audibly distorted, bearing closer semblance to a canine's wails. The Hunter stood stiff, deadpanning the beseeching Mali' with beady eyes. He'd finally wind the crossbow's string back, aiming it towards the prey.

"Morea's good Graces. . . I do not wish to hurt you. . ." The elf's voice devolved into a deeply distorted dialect with that phrase, as his very body convulsed and contorted into a disgusting mass of transmuting flesh. Tufts of fur grew at a rapid pace all over the Mali's body. His very mouth bent out of shape, giving way for a rapidly developing snout. His frame grew and grew out of mundane proportions as the assumed creature took form. . . A disgusting, apalling lycanthrope. A Feral, as they called it.

The Hunter took aim as the beast took it's form. Deep, rhythmic breaths were taken as he adjusted the grasp upon his weapon. All this, as the wolfish creature reeled back, ready to pounce upon the Hunter's form in a self-defensing act. None took their time as the scene went on. Both hunter and prey, whichever was the one and the other, were ready.

"Click!" the faint sound of the crossbow's trigger ensued, as a murder of crows rapidly took off from the treeline, into the dark-lit sky.

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A few hours later...

The once idyllic frame of nature was disturbed by all accounts. Instead of a kestrel's peaceful chirps, one would hear pained grunts. Instead of healthy, green grass, tinted by the pale moon's light, one would see the ground splattered with copious amounts of blood. A crossbow laid a few paces back, thrown out of reach. The deep marks of sharp talons littered the surrounding trees, and alas, the body of a cut-down Mali' laid still and bloodied, a prevalent slash wound running down it's spine. By the cadaver's side was a bloody blade, it's edge shimmering a golden tint.

The hunter's pants were still audible, as his disgruntled frame laid slouched against a tree's bark. His forearm remained glued to his cleaved abdomen, quite literally holding his guts from spilling. The pain was mostly numb, as a result of the drugs consumed prior to the fight, though it was of clear sight that the hunter was not to get back up. Nevertheless, he kept holding at his wound, driven by an instinctive need to survive, however longer that would be. In such a state, the man brought his free, left hand to his mouth, promptly tugging at his glove. Removing it revealed the brand of a Sparrow, burned into the back of his palm a long time ago. Though it was part of him, he did not gaze upon it for a long, long time. A glint of awe appeared within his eyes, as he started chanting to himself. . .

"Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

. . . Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

This mantra, repeatedly uttered by the old veteran, issued the names of his former, deceased comrades and mentors. Though all came to pass, he was to join them, and this brought a certain sense of peace to the decadent frame in which the poor hunter found himself situated. Alas, in his last moments, he could only reminisce. Reminisce of his time as a young swordsman. An idealistic Initiate. A war-torn veteran. He let out a highly uncharacteristic chuckle as he thought of the past. Of the dangers he had to contain. Of the odds he and his comrades fought against.

"Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

. . . Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

Until the crack of dawn, as his body slowly expired, the man kept uttering these names. As light invaded the sky, and as his eyes slowly fluttered shut, the old veteran kept repeating this single set of names.

"Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

. . . Vicelin, Renuald, Eddard, Veidan, Alfred, Haddock, Viktor, Bart. . ."

"I'm coming. . . I'm finally coming. . ."

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Wall of the Dead:

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-ANOTHER COMRADE KILLED IN ACTION, SEEKING TO FULFILL THE INITIATIVE'S PURPOSE AND IDEALS TO THEIR VERY END, IN SPITE OF HIS OWN KIN'S PERVERTED VALUES.

TO OUR COMRADE: VEIDAN

Sky Guide you.

[!] Letters are soon imparted towards the Criers from OuterHaven, bearing the sigil of a wolf's cranium. They simply read:

"This one's ours."

"Let it die, you ******* mongrels. . ." A former inhabitant of the Lodge meekly comments, having witnessed it's horrors.

[!] Beneath each missive, a scribbled index laid, revealing quite the sombre roster. It read:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wall of the Dead:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-A BROTHER FALLEN, VICTIM TO THE [REDACTED] HE SOUGHT TO SLAY IN UNDOUBTED PERSEVERANCE.

TO OUR COMRADE: ELIAS

Sky Guide you.

[!] Ominous missives are nailed across Atlas, be it on a post on the roadway, or the bounty board of a mundane city. The large cranium of what seemed to be a canine creature was drawn unto the page, garnering the attention of few.

The Outerhaven Initiative

Great threats require great men, with able minds and bodies to oppose them. Far too long have we left the foul, alien forces of the wicked go by unnoticed. Perverted magicks and afflictions of degenerate-kind, all actively contained, tolerated and sometimes even protected by today’s folk and kingdoms.

We are but a simple group of individuals aiming to mitigate the foreign threats of this realm swiftly and effectively, as well as to lend our helping hand to the Nations that need it by use of special procedures which ones may deem unorthodox.

..For in a world filled with depravity, one must always sustain their purpose, and apply his trade during times of crisis.

[!] A faded symbol litters the bottom of the missive, perhaps a signature of sorts. Nothing more.

[This Faction operates under a PK clause!]

A disgruntled individual, his face littered with scars, makes sure to inform a Criar of his identity and supposed whereabouts in the coming weeks.

[!] A stained, grizzled paper is nailed to the various boards of Curon, written by an anonymous author.

"A fair warning to any of you drifters! Something prowls the roadside of our fair lands, ambushin' camps and caravans alike! Be wary of the road leadin' into the forest! A cursed one it is!

~

~

CURSED!"

On 5/4/2018 at 6:00 AM, PhantomMask said:

Shingen puts a note next to the bounty on the board. "I am a skilled monster hunter from the land of Yulthar. Contact me in the town of Cadlew if you wish to band together to fight this creature. -Oda Shingen."

A grumpy, old Marked Man rips off the note, shooting a healthy bundle of phlegm unto the ground nearby.

"Slit-eyed Freelancers. . ." He mumbles.

Don's back.

+1

Gyrard's illiteracy prevents him from understanding a word from this paper. He instead uses it as a spare tissue after defecating.

"T'ain't a woman's job to fight, much less join a Brigade." A traditionalist man murmurs.

"We're talking horrors. . . with the power to collide worlds as they please. We're not fit to lick their boots."

. . .

"Gives me conniptions.."

10 hours ago, DarkElfs said:

((Just because of mordskov things I'll probably try join if you don't mind other dark elven people)

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"If you're gonna do this, at least keep it pure, Lion." An old veteran remarks with contempt.

13 hours ago, Blago said:

Aúraniel el-Iheiuhi’igne.

Send a vocaroo where you pronounce this and I'll give you 20$ via paypal.

A tall individual stands over the burning pyre alongside few of his comrades, a single palm holding at his newly disfigured face.

"No end to this." He meekly comments.

Current Username: Joltastik

Discord(‘You got it’ does not suffice): Joltastik#3780

Timezone(s) you mainly play: GMT +2, Though I'm struggling with insomnia so EST can work.

What group/nation do you consider to be your main?: Old Mordskov group/ Lodge boys

Have you held a staff position before?: Yes, been an Actor a while back, two months iirc, during Squirt's time as Director. Ultimately quit because Irl caught up with me and I knew I'd go inactive sooner or later.

Do you currently hold a staff position?: No.

Do you plan on applying for other staff positions?: No.

Have you ever been banned before? If so, how long ago and what reason?: Never.

What style of events do you feel you enjoy creating? (Low Fantasy, High Fantasy, Quests, Dungeons, etc.): Low Fantasy eventlines, usually contained into a site for better management and overall consistency. I also have a soft spot for Monster Hunts and generally mundane-oriented stuff.

List three factors you feel play a part in a quality event and expand upon them.:

Difficulty: Although an event shouldn't be nigh impossible, putting a party's wit and skills to the test is, to me, a major part of any eventline. The playerbase must know that although the event is catered towards it, there is a possibility to fail it.

Dynamic: An event should build it's narrative in accordance to the player's actions, as opposed to a set plan of action which may lead to only one or two endings. The Actor should be able to properly react to the player's choices, and create fitting, dynamic scenarios which emphasize on them.

Fairness: Although one might feel compelled to kill off 'Knight-Errant Joe' for suspiciously stumbling over an unfolding event, one should be fair in what they do, and refrain from their OOC impulses or sense of judgement. If their character were to do something stupid IRP, then sure, but an Actor out of all should be able to make out the line between OOC and RP.

Which member(s) of the team would you attempt to emulate and why?: At the moment, out of the current team, none. I do actively worship some of them though, such as ScreamingDingo or Swgrclan.

Provide three event scenarios, in total, of the style(s) you listed above:

1. ~No rest for the Wicked~

Dirty guardsmen, filthy thugs, and a booming industry of Quartz Dust. Stern ol' Detective MacAllister needs somebody's help uncovering the biggest, baddest crime wave plaguing the city of [TBA], and you're the candidate at hand. . . . Unless you wish to join in on the other side, and get your hands on as many dirty minae as you can.

-This urban eventline would bring a certain noir feel about, different cases and hints brought to MacAllister leading the players into attempting to unstring a web of deceit, murder and minas. From stabs in alleyways, to medieval casinos ran by criminal kingpins, the players will be brought into a dirty, antagonistic world. They would, of course, be able to join in on the other side, running different criminal operations that may lead to a nasty bust, or loads of money.

2. ~The disappearance of Madam Kook~

A sweet old lady Madam Kook was, sewing clothes for the little, baking goods for the big. Everybody loved her, and of course, when news of her unexpected disappearance came aloft, people started panicking. A fat bounty has been issued to anybody willing to bring the old Madam back home. Are you up for it?

-This event will put the player's tracking skills to the test. Madam Kook has, allegedly, been kidnapped. The players will slowly uncover the mystery, and should they find the supposed village culprit, they'd be able to turn him in, and get him a swift sentence at the gallows. There is a twist, though, as this is a ruse. A Sentient Being took the Madam in the midst of night, crudely attempting to alter it's tracks, as to disrupt any potential tracker. It is up to the player to get tricked into killing an innocent bystander, or think ahead of the unknown being, uncovering it's lair and finally laying waste to it.

3. ~A night to remember~

Your party has been invited to attend at the ball of the century, with an oddly dark theme. The manor's patron, known only as 'Mister Kirk', made sure to lock and ward any exit once all guests made their way in. Paranoia has struck the few guests, as one of them is found in a cellar, but a bloody conglomerate of flesh and bone. Will the guests each find their doom, or will you step in and save the day?

-Classic murder mystery, not much to be said. A bunch of guests locked in a manor at night, a fluid string of murders, clues and witnesses, and a bunch of players trying to find the culprit within the guests.

Why do you wish to become an ET Actor Member?: I enjoyed my first time as an Actor, and find it quite fun to offer fun and challenging events to the playerbase.

What strengths would you bring to the team?: Well, first off, I could satisfy the poor GMT minority who might be in need of more Actors on their time-zone. Second off, I'd be able to bring a helping hand to the other members of the team, as well as create various eventlines of my own, aimed to compel the playerbase.

What are your weaknesses?: In the long run, I can get quite lazy, though I can easily snap out of it once I get myself the time. 

How much time could you give to this position in the foreseeable future?:  I admit, I'm not as much of a LOTC junkie as I was in the past, but I can offer plenty of my time in which I can fill out events for the players (Especially during the weekends!)

Gimme a honest rundown on what you think of the ol' Mordskov gang members and what's happening at the moment. Is there more to be expected?

On 2/10/2018 at 8:18 PM, boy said:

 

dont think a man that didnt even step a foot into mordskov has any say in that .

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