Security_

give me the IP addresses of my enemies

Just as the night before, Calaron Wick lit the candles in his room one by one. The censer hanging low above his bed sputtered, swinging idly to waft and crackle, dispersing the familiar scent of myrrh in the air. Grasping a ruskan cross the chandler knelt before an altar of flame. There he pondered… Was this Justice?

An ancient Haeseni long passed to the ages slams a fist into his desk. “The druids are behind this! It’s always a druidic plot, Big Plant pulls their strings and the marionettes dance.”

“Same as it ever was.”

guns and werewolves are on the same level of cosmic fuckery, hope you get denied like muskets silly furry 😆

A young man emboldened by the ideals of a greater tomorrow tied off his chandlery supplies sat atop his burro. Heading to the east he went merrily along, humming a tune.

Vast and eternal, the cerulean sky was cloudless to the eye. Viewed from an opening within the thicket, the lush cypress forest was alive in tranquil singing of birds, harmonized with a trill of cicadas buzzing atop their perches. The sun was just hidden beyond the canopy’s loom, peaking through rays of white that washed a man’s pale flesh. A breeze rustled the trees, their branches, the lush grass beneath. In ease with the world, the man lazed through time whilst azure sky fell to speckled black, the yawning expanse of the infinite night now lay before him. A moon waned at zenith above his head, the heavenly body casting silver light over the glade. It was in an eerie silence that the birds silenced their song, insects ceased their call. The earth stilled to a halt. Roots clambered forth, clamping his arms to the ground with a force inhuman. Pushing, pulling, no matter how he thrashed, wooden arms stilled him. Black candles lined his perimeter, each lit in onyx flame as a hellish sacrament was born. With a groan did the dirt begin to split, more roots crept upwards, determined to pull him beneath. Fingers bled, fingers failed to find purchase on the precipice of a yawning pit, to claw away the serpentine roots. The vision grew dark, the man cried aloud to scream for aid, alas roots shot to clamp down his jaw- a tongue was bloodied, its end bitten off clean. A wooden lattice enveloped the remnant moonlight that peaked from pinholes into the earth, the last of the light gone with the man’s last whimper. A name resounded in his head, a scream that threatened to explode his ears in booming thunder, ”WOLTAINE!” Bound was the damned mortal to an eternal prison beneath. Infinite silence was all that was left thereafter, waiting. Time passed, the man unknowing of how long he had been entombed. Hope left what remained, leaving behind a husk, a vessel, a blank slate. . . . Light. Warm, amber, as small as a firefly it birthed before his vision. It warmed his nose, the first warmth he’d felt in time immemorial. Sputtering to a flame was a candle’s light, offering a meager hope. It was a whisper, a break from the mute death beneath the earth. The flame burgeoned to greater heights, its once warming effect was now immolating. Roots began to smolder before the man’s blurred vision. A horrid cry rang out as the wooden limbs eased upward, the blaze consumed the pit. Crackling, his ears were filled with the sound of singed flesh, of a crepitation, of hope. He rose from the chasm wreathed in golden flame to find the forest a wall of fury, spanning to a sky of starless black. Ash rained from the once Cerulean sky, the man now began to smell his bubbling flesh, the singing of hairs- began to hear the screams of the inferno - began to cough. Coughing, coughing, coughing, the vision faded with the ash that blinded. Coughing, coughing, the screams receded to a crackling of a hearth. Coughing, the man awoke. Sweat covered his face, screaming awake, he clutched at his heart. A book was jostled from his lap once he reared up from the terror, panting heavily in the library’s heart. A hand, slightly burned, had been carelessly fallen too close to the fireplace in his stupor. His eyes danced from shelf to shelf, muttering a low curse as he drank from his waterskin, before pouring out a stream onto his reddened palm. Calaron's voice was hoarse, barely carried as he muttered, “Goran.”

💀

[!] Scrolls, tied in black string and smeared with charcoal are carried by rats both undead and living, skeletal and zombified. Sent directly to necromancers across the land, some missives are found waterlogged in gutters, others smothered in dirt along a road as rats became roadkill, or simply grow tired of carrying scrolls. To the weavers, ghouls, and to the lowly Golden Lich of the Xionist Coven I write, How long did it take for you to forget your master? Your maker? Do you believe yourself righteous in your path, to bend so low before the foregone scripts of Xion? Have you learned nothing from the mistakes of the Old Lords? The very ones who shattered the black nexus, and scattered the art of necromancy for decades- damning the mortal races of the one true primeval art. Do you make your bed with Mystics, false mimics of our blessed art? You lower your standing by meddling with the spectral imitations of sacred necromancy. Hear my words, Golden Lich, you bring dishonor to the name of Gashadokuro, you bring dishonor to the art of necromancy, and you bring dishonor unto yourself. I offer you an accord, a means to cleanse your foolish clambering to an ideology of slothful souls destined to waste into the eternities. Look upon the works of the Xionist, their very affects upon the Mundas I can count on one hand. Self-righteous they believe themselves the saviors of Aos and Eos, telling themselves the lies that old men whispered in fear of the Old Dark aeons ago. So as you cling now to Mordring, the dog of Malkaathe, let there be a final chance for the weavers of this realm to merge into one before I join the war upon your coven. I offer terms of peace. To cease all worship, adherence, and praise of the four false Lords, and of the Xion texts. To aid in the destruction of the dog Mordring, who’s leash has been slack for far too long. To return under the Eye of Iblees, to serve Chaos and Ruin. Remember the fate of the last Gravelord who defied Iblees. Do not make the same mistake. Decreed by The Rat Lich, Gravelord Adramélekh

The Rat Lich grabs a bucket of popcorn, reminded of years past.

Calaron resides within the chandlery of Numenost, resting his feet up on the counter with a relieved sigh. “At least nobody lost an ear this year, right brati?” He elbowed his brother gently, a low chuckle resonating through him. @EmbryoGod

The retired Archlich Adramélekh sits upon a rocking chair forged of bones, smoking from a pipe which uselessly coughed smoke into the skeleton’s skull. Reading his daily paper, The Aevos Times, he reads this missive of none other than his own Hexicanum now aiding the enemy of all Wickdom, Haense. Dropping his paper and pipe, the fiend hastily writes a letter to the fellow archlich Aratakrast as rats swarm the room.. “This better be a joke or else I’m bringing back Soupbone from hell. Also, I have true Barbanovs, Koeng Otto III and the II. You can’t have them. Enjoy your ‘Bihars’, or as we call them, Bihahahas.” - Signed, Gravelord Adramélekh, Eternal Lich of the Heith-Hedran, King of Rats, Lord of Rot, Zar’akaal of the Zentherak Agony, Consumer of Apparitions, King of Vandoria, Rightful Heir to the Embermoore Throne, Castellan of the Hexicanum, Protectorate of Kerzenwick, Destroyer of Ascended, Remover of God-blight, Liberator of Markev, Duke of Dust, Licker of Boots, Herald of Hermits, and Defender of all that is Wick.

Sloppilled

Calaron Wick sat within his chambers, face still blushed in furious reds as he read the missive. Retrieving his throwing knives, he began to pace around the room… but a few cigars and drinks later proved calming to his temper.

Casimir Wick lit a candle within his shop, marking the loss of a great knight. “Rest well, good Ser Raug- a finer uruk none could confide in.”

Casimir considers the implication of rodent limbs, taking note to never lose an appendage. "A fine mouse that one is, a true Wick at heart." The raev folds the letter neatly, giving it to a courier rat nearby.

An ancient Haeseni sat within his library, reading over the excerpt by candlelight. Closing the tome with a plume of dust, the book was returned to the fiction section where it would rest forevermore. “Where do they get this stuff?”

Readable conjuration lore? 😮

okay where's the lich option

A Rat lights a candle within the cabin of his ship, shrugging off the layers of dust and rubble that once held the Hexicanum aloft. “Another prodigy lost-lost.. and that one was my favorite,” the rat snides, unfurling the sail of his sloop. Uncorking a bottle from the lich’s innards, he pours out a glass of Wick Whiskey into the waters below…

I guess I’ll respond to this since it’s one of the only comments actually making a case against the amendment. While not all necromancers are considerably evil, the act of practicing a magic centered around the tampering of corpses brings with it both physical and mental barriers that dehumanize necromancers from other mortals. The magic itself ages the necromancer, worsening with each tier as they master their art. By tier 3 the necromancer is already geriatric- bringing with it the obvious bane of impotence. Even outside of the effects of the magic, the very effect of puppeting corpses, feasting on people’s lifeforce, and molding flesh like clay would hold substantial mental effects, ranging in many different ways depending on the necro. Some would have trauma, others would have their egos fed by the power- either way, the longer they practice the magic the more human emotions and relationships grow distant. This is not to say necromancers cannot love, or cannot lust- but that they simply are unable to act upon these emotions, whether due to impotence, or by the despicable actions of the magic that would constantly build that psychological barrier between them. This can be roleplayed as a once-perfect father slowly growing distant to his wife and kids, perhaps even growing to disdain them. There’s far more story that can be built with conflict, rather than hugbox love rp. People should not expect to roleplay a character that regularly cuts opens people or who sees rotting liches and darkstalkes walking capable holding mundane social relationships. Necromancers are not one dimensional simply because they are unable or unwilling to romance- it’s silly to perceive lust as some requirement for a well rounded character. Many LotCers prefer to never engage in romance RP, mostly because of the increasing playerbase of young, impressionable kids on the server. Character growth is also not restricted to romance- necromancers can still be fond of another mortal (even barring all the obvious reasons both in the magic and psychologically why it wouldn’t work well.) This amendment gives the in-lore justification as for why necromancers are unable to sire children, and as to why they lack the ability to truly “love.” It feels like a false equivalence to say no romance = no room for your character to grow. Much of the necro playerbase and I opt to find the hundreds of other ways to advance and flesh out our characters. So far most of the covens have survived with little to no romance RP, and it has always been reasoned that necromancy, the undead corpse magic, would generally get in the way of love.

characters are only good if they can **** -1 cant believe you'd take away the best part of lotc???