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Vindicant

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About Vindicant

  • Rank
    Operator Operating Operationally
  • Birthday 07/13/1998

Contact Methods

  • Minecraft Username
    K0llu
  • Skype
    Vindicant
  • Email
    kollu1@yahoo.com

Profile Information

  • Gender
    Male
  • Location
    /k/
  • Interests
    Shitposting about my favoured waifus.

Character Profile

  • Character Name
    Karyssmov Faroe.

Recent Profile Visitors

8,476 profile views
  1. Vindicant

    Louder

    He tried. He really did. Four elven months he spent being a good man. He held his tongue, he smiled when he didn’t want to, he refrained from drawing steel. He did his best. Even when people spat on him, called him a demon, he didn’t resist. He just nodded, pulled the hood further over his head, and carried on. Each time it nagged him a bit more. ‘Why not fight back? He’s easy to kill. See there-- his throat exposed, just rake it with your nails. He’ll bleed out, and you won’t even feel a thing.’ Karyssmov tried to ignore the devils on his shoulder. He wished he had an angel there, like others did. Instead, it was just naysaying. ‘Kill them.’ ‘Gut them.’ ‘Make an example of them.’ And each time, he ignored them. He bit his tongue, and he just smiled and nodded. He walked away when he didn’t have to, he took the higher road each time. He was doing his best. He was trying his best. But the scar on his shoulder which still ached continued to remind him. The world didn’t care for change. It didn’t care for redemption. Once you did wrong, there was no undoing it. No years of repentance, no amount of gifts and offerings of aid was ever accepted or card for. He kept trying. Even when it did nothing but afford him pain, he was trying. She offered him a smile each time. Condolences for the new bruise on his cheek, or the long cut down his chin. She’d treat him each time, of course. But it never felt right to him. He was trying, but they didn’t care. Each time, they drew steel and tried to ‘smite the evil’. He just wanted to live. He wanted to make up for what was wrong, but each time it was dragged from him. HIs unseeing eyes stare into the top of the ceiling within his home. He couldn’t even see his children smile or laugh anymore. He felt despair eat at his heart. He still remembered the scream. The faintest yelp She made from trying to get him out-- get him to safety, get him away. And she protected him. The spear aimed for his neck-- aimed to kill -- instead drove through her hand, crippling her. He felt the black rise again. That same bitter rage against the world that continued again and again to reject him. It was fitting to take from him-- the one who took most, but to hurt Her? She did nothing wrong. And that rage only built. He brings her away, treats her away from prying eyes. He snapped at those who tried to treat her-- they’d hurt her. They already did, they’d just do worse. And all the while the devils in his ears sang their little songs, ‘You could just tell them! Tell them! They’d kill them!’ and he tried to ignore it. But it wiggled in his ear against his will, a wail heard constantly as he packs her injured hand. He holds her, too afraid to do much more. Again, he was unsure. Again, he didn’t know what to do. Was he a man if he didn’t protect his own? Who wouldn’t defend his kin and kith? Those he loved, they deserved to be protected. They didn’t do anything wrong, they didn’t send him down the road he walked. A sharp tooth bites into his lip, drawing blood from the now-anemic man. He fumbles with a cloth against his lip, attempting to clear it up in his sightless state but only manages to smear it over him. His thoughts keep turning to those around him. Those who wanted him dead. They weren’t worth as much. They weren’t as important. They weren’t worth her suffering. They were expendable. He barely managed to get away. The wound in his shoulder bled to the dirt below as he barely managed to hold her to his arms. His brother draped over his shoulder-- because they simply hadn’t taken enough from him yet. They wanted him too. Karyssmov couldn’t have that. Shambling off, he barely gets them to the shrine of Akezo. Fervently and with the use of only a single arm, he painstakingly treats the serrated gash in his right shoulder, faint whimpers and grunts heard as the needle digs into flesh and muscle and threads linen through where it did not belong. And yet it brought the flesh together, stopping it from falling apart. It didn’t make him stop feeling it though. The screaming only got louder. The more his own wounds hurt, the louder it got. The more she squirmed in pain, the louder it got. Each time his brother made a snapping sound, it only got louder. It didn’t feel like it was going to stop. It only drilled further and further into his head, and he had to lower his gaze and hide his expression to not show what was flooding through him. He probably could have shrugged it off as just pain, but she would know, and she would say it was a lie. But he didn’t want to disappoint her. He didn’t want to lie. So he said nothing, merely glaring at the sky. The sky of the world that denied him. The one that took everything from him. And each time he looked at a new star pop up from behind the clouds, it only got louder. Until it was the only thing he heard. And so he begged for eyes from anything that could listen.
  2. Vindicant

    [Playable CA Race Lore] - [Eastern Dragons]

    You could also consider making a kobold race instead of a more draconic race. Smaller races like that as opposed to strong dragonkin will be more likely to be accepted. Much easier to balance, and make sure there are set limits and whatnot. Height and weight ands trength, for example. If you make them similar to Goblins where they can be as short as 3 feet but as tall as 6, that may work out well, just make sure they are different enough from goblins to warrant the lore team accepting them. please free the kobold
  3. Vindicant

    [Playable CA Race Lore] - [Eastern Dragons]

    i was messing with u dude (though the art example u have is p furry)
  4. Vindicant

    [Playable CA Race Lore] - [Eastern Dragons]

    if this server is evergoing to have a playable draconid race (aside from the shift the azdrazi can do) then they will be dragonborn from 5e not some furry ****
  5. Vindicant

    Wyrd

    Water had always scared Karyssmov. He could never really put a reason to it, but he feared whenever he crossed or stared into it. When the world ends, the boats they inevitably cross over always proved to make him sick to his stomach. He wretched over the sides constantly, and simply didn’t feel safe. Always, without fail, he’d retreat down into the safety of the ship, ignoring the rocking that plagued the wooden vessel as they move on once more. Then again, fear was not a new thing to the man. Living this long, you tend to run across a few things that send shivers down your spine or crawling in your flesh. But it always came back to water-- always water, and nothing more. There was no beast there, there was nothing unsafe, and yet it made him fear nonetheless. He avoids puddles, lakes, oceans and all. Everything to do with it, he feared. It was benign-- stupid, nonsensical! He kept telling himself it was ridiculous, and that it was nothing but his own overactive imagination. But every time, it always came right back to the same darkened water. Was it dark before? A trick of the light, maybe. The air stung with sulphur, with the scent of green in his nose. A peculiar mix as he drifts off near the goblin shaman, hoping to find answers to the question he could never solve. As he opens his eyes once more, he doesn’t find the hell he had expected-- it was a field, with woods on either side. His brows knit in confusion, and the shaman stares at him for a moment in confusion before gesturing them forth. Hands that were not his own and yet he controlled them-- he pushes forth through vines that rotted and lived at the same time. A deer traipsed through the woods, aging and dying then reforming and being reborn every single second. He tore his eyes away from the macabre sight and continued on. A hand rests on his shoulder for a moment, the kindly smile of the shaman. The Prince could not dare to look him in the eyes to return the kindness. The woods melted into each other here, forming and unforming like an undulating mass that the poor elf could not comprehend. A strand of white hair that wasn’t his own is puffed away from his eyes with an errant misty breath. And then as if it were a dream, a clearing in the dense woods. It seemed empty, the grass dying in shades of brown then being reborn in delightful green. A constant change, a constant rebirth. It was never the same here, perplexing the man as he steps forward. Was he man? Elf? Even he did not know anymore. His soul wasn’t even wholly his own anymore, so how could he ever tell? The answer shot forth from the ground like an aberrant seed, a peculiar sapling which grew tall into a tree. Then it shortened, and was a sapling once more. Rebirth and new beginnings. A constant in this realm, it explained with a smile. The Spirit saw into the man-elf-thing, saw him for who he was. What he was. Demon-summoner. Blood-binder. Warlock. Heathen. And it did not blink, did not saunter, did not lie. It simply looked, and he smiled. It spoke in a tone that he did not dare to comprehend, something he couldn’t comprehend. A second chance. A chance to look into water without fear. Knowing what he knew, he stepped away, his soul feeling ever-slightly lighter. Karyssmov wasn’t even his name. It wasn’t the first time he danced around a false name, and even now, no one really knew what it really was. With shaking hands, he reaches forth for the side of the puddle, and looks down into it. A dark-skinned elf with white hair. That is who he saw. But it looked nothing like him, it couldn’t be him. And yet there it was, clear as crystal. In the same breath, it shifted into a man of ginger hair and pale complexion, then back into the facsimile of ‘Karyssmov’. Even that was a lie, and a lie he could not understand. But for once, he finally knew why he feared it. He could change. He could be a new man, and all he had to do was try. He had his task, and now he could look into the water. He wasn’t afraid anymore.
  6. It’s nice to know when we are leaving, but what will the map end event be? Please don’t be rushed and forced like it was for Axios.

  7. Vindicant

    A Miner's Mistake

    drink water
  8. Vindicant

    Votar's Shaati

    Application: Name: Daelyn Fae Race: Pinkie Age: 19 Discord#: you got it bozo
  9. I CLOSE MY EYES AND SEIZE IT

  10. Vindicant

    [Reformatting][Magic Lore] – Trumm’Lordak

    The only magic that LOTC needs.
  11. Vindicant

    Payment of Past Crimes [PK]

    Somewhere, an old man raises a drink to an old friend.
  12. Vindicant

    Tyr's Fall

    “Do you think this’ll actually stop him?” “I’m not sure. We have to hope.” “...a final demonstration of your loyalty. Swear. Swear you will not report what you have been told.” A chorus, a resounding ‘yes’. Five Knights set their hand upon a stone, swearing themselves. They swear, condemning themselves to a fate that none other particularly understand save for a keen few. So they must, so they did. The harrowed words spoken after the swearing-- things they’ll never forget. “...it was all a lie.” “What do you think it is?” speaks a small figure. One of the Five that swore with him-- smaller, lithe. Not as fit for combat. Not as fit for service. Welcome nonetheless, for there must always be a heart in a team. “...I am not quite sure.” comes the metallic and raspy response. Strangely enough in contrast, the tone was almost musical. “Well that’s no good. You’re the Scholar. That’s your job-- you’re supposed to know!” come the pouting words of the smaller Knight. The Saint, as he had been titled. Dwelling within the Archives, the Knights think on what task they had been given. The Wall, standing firm and overlooking the entrance for those who would intrude. The Knight, standing vigil next to him. The Singer, fitfully snoozing and getting the last bout of sleep that he would surely get in quite some time. For a while, there was silence. “...I do not know all. That’s simply my goal. This...thing. It’s not from here. There is no way to describe it, no way to really conceive it even. How was it made? How does it sustain itself? It’s a thing of pure and utter taint-- so what was it originally before that?” the ponderings of a man who thought he knew much more than he did. “...It is a weapon like no other. There can be no other.” A hand is set on the Scholar’s shoulder. A grunt, a shudder. He didn’t like it when people touched him. With clanking armor, his helm turns to the smaller-yet figure-- the Wolf. “You’re going to do it? Carry that element of destruction to Tyr? You know what it’ll cost.” comes the matronly tone of her. A faint solace was found there-- she cared. “...Yes.” uttered the Scholar.. Ever-faintly, one could detect an emotion on the Scholar’s voice-- fear. One of the few things he felt these days. “Then you won’t bear it alone, my son. We’ll bear it together. As one.” A faint squeeze to his shoulder. A smile comes then, though she could not see it. The City of Caras Eldar. Changing hands many times, with many people coming and going for reasons unbeknownst to those Five who gathered. Sleepless nights, endless preparations. And the crux of it all-- a single black box, within laying the decider of Tyr’s fate. Offering the vaguest of greetings to the gathered Descendants, the Five travel forth through the city, stepping up into a tower that was long scouted beforehand. Tyr soon arrived, hordes aplenty with a thousand-thousand minions at his back. Titans of gargantuan stature, with power befitting the size they bore. But in all of it, the Descendants stood firm. The Scholar watched in amusements as the Druii utilize the flat of a blade to launch one of their own at the titan, destroying it utterly. “Maybe they’re not entirely helpless.” he mutters under his breath to the gathered Vaeyl. “Maybe. But they let him get this far, now didn’t they? Can’t be all that great.” mutters the solemn Wall, brooding over the task that was presented before them. “Calm your mood. We all bear the sin of what is about to occur-- not just you. You may hear nature, but we can feel the effects all the same.” the Scholar states harshly. The sounds of a struggle nearby; the chuckling of the Knight. “Tyr is struggling…” It all fell silent then. The Prince was enraptured. Stuck-still, unable to move. The opportunity was before them: They would not let it escape their grasp once more. The ballista commandeered from the elves, they set to loading. The Scholar could even be heard muttering a prayer beneath his breath, the Wolf-- a new addition-- setting the bolt within the war machine. “Forgive us.” they speak to the nature around them, as the Scholar sets the Darkseed within a chamber of the bolt. “Do you think he’s watching right now? The Lord-General?” “...likely not. But of course, his men have eyes. And they are upon us.” Black-armored hands seize the sides, cranking the strings taut and readying the ballista. The Scholar nods to his compatriots, before barking a command to the Knight. Those gathered mutter their peace, and nod. At once, they raise their voices… “For the Third Banner! FIRE!” And then all was black. A thousand voices cried out in unison, and just as quickly, they were silenced. The Prince decays, tendrils of his soul tree desperately clamoring at him to reclaim him to the soil before falling still themselves. A desiccated and blackened corpse, infecting the nature around them. The once-beautiful city of Caras Eldar was infested-- masses of undead writhing from the abyssal energies, devouring the errant citizens unfortunate enough to be outside the walls. Their wails were racked with grief. Some were saved, but the hordes of undead roving and the intense chill left by the corrupted monsoon left little to be desired. “...Did we finally do it?” speaks the Wolf. Their breaths were held, trepidation upon their every quivering inhale. “Yes.” comes the croaking voice of the Scholar. Each of them were wracked with pain and guilt at what they had done. One moreso than others had felt the pain of what had occurred-- the Wall was shuddering, struck quiet aside from vague mutterings under his breath. He was begging for forgiveness, the normally stoic and heroic figure struck with such wracking pains left them all in realization of just how deep the damage went, both to the land and to the people. Ash settles around them, falling and coating their black armor in gray. Breath came out as mist upon the inky air, and the very land shuddered in agony at what now ran through the veins beneath it’s surface. “...And all of this was worth it.”
  13. remember to give your parents gifts for the holidays

     

    your life is worth a funny coffee mug

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