Ardory

Soxton Boomstitch sighs as yet another candidate for the Big Hat Society’s base of operations gets obliterated by another divine being of questionable validity.

#8

[!] Some stones across Storm Island have been seemingly scorched with a message. Whoever wrote this does not seem the best at writing, with misspellings and crossed out words and letters, and seems to have little concept of many things around the island. Should one find other stones, they can deduce a more comprehensible missive. THE THUNDER BEFORE LIGHTNING [!] This image isn’t on the rocks, but it does looks cool! TO THE “RESIDENTS” OF RAIJIMA: FEAR THE SKIES, for this is a warning, the thunder before lightning. You tread upon my sacred ground, the sacred island belonging to I, RAIKO NO KAMI, THE KAMI OF RAIJIMA. You built your rock and thatch structures upon my once pristine shores, erected shrines to other Kami upon beautiful mountains, and polluted the once clean air with smoke from your strange metal beings. I have called down from my heavenly throne, THE SUMMIT OF THE SKY, many times towards your squares with pointy bits on the top. Yet you do not seem to hear my thundering voice! This ignorance will not stand. However, I am a merciful Kami, and I shall not strike against your mortal kind. Yet, I expect ritual offerings of shiny and ornate things and trinkets in my name. Climb to the highest and most lightning scarred mountain in Raijima and approach my throne with respect and sublimation. You need not grovel for forgiveness, but I will not stop you should you do. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Forming the Kingdom of Agartha but it is an ethnostate of Gnomes. (Agnotha)

[!] A paper will release soon on why the idea of "Saint's Days" is silly and why the timeframe makes no logical sense.

The Round World Experiment by Soxton Boomstitch Introduction It is believed in general scholarly consensus that the world is a “coin”, flat with two sides. However, I find myself challenging this notion, as the world is, in reality, round since vision ends at the horizon and not a continuous plane. The understanding of the world’s topography as flat comes from what is assumed as outdated information that no one seems to remember the origin of. This is concerning and beckons a proof that the world is round. Methodology To achieve a result, I have devised an experiment. There will be three 3.5 foot wide by 3.2 door tall wooden boards, with two of these boards having 5-inch diameter holes cut at 2 feet at the center from the bottom. On a flat area, the hole less board is placed 105 feet away from my position. The two other boards with holes will be placed equidistant between us (26 ft and 79 ft). I will then cast a shifting spell with the school of translocation. This spell requires a clear line of sight to the target. Should I be unable to shift to the hole less board, this proves the world is flat and should I shift to the hole less board (which is statistically impossible), then the world is flat. Fig. 1 Results I shifted through the two holed boards to the hole less board multiple times with the multiple repetitions of the experiment. There must be something wrong, as this should be impossible. I then lifted myself on my toes and then shifted, which resulted in stopping at the second of the holed boards. Further testing is required.

Onion is collecting power through the belief of others like goku’s spirit bomb. This man’s power alone is one to be feared. Also welcome to the server!

I HAVE COME TO MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT OPEN AT YOUR OWN RISK

Soxton Boomstitch's jaw hits the ground, he bursts into the lab without his mandated safety suit, rummaging through multiple papers, files, and other documents. He tosses multiple onto the floor, regarding a multitude of seemingly random subjects. "It's got to be here somewhere!" he yelps as he continues to dig through the cabinet until he takes out a file that is slightly charred, "YES! Here it is!" he dusts the ash slightly and looks it over. Upon it, the title reads: "LOG OF DATES AND TIMES L.O.G.O.S. HAS DROPPED SOXTON BOOMSTITCH INTO LAVA."

So can I get my pocket dimension yet.

WORLD-CLASS GOLEM CHEF AK-RULLAZ notices at the notice, walking past in the Urguani roads with multiple ingredients in his arms. After reading, the stonekin drops all his ingredients and begins to travel to Kurai Kuni! This was important.

OK NOW THAT I AM HOME I CAN FINALLY SPEAK ON THIS. Veilwatching in of itself is not a bad theme at all. Mages who serve to keep the veil intact so that no power hungry nerds who open a tear for fun. HOWEVER, it severely lacks is a “fun” factor other than watch sky and anime glowing eyes RP which has drawn people away from the feat other than feat collectors. As previously mentioned, it can just be used to "heh, you posted on the forums that you opened a void tear. I got my epic void horror buddy (Pocket ST) to tell me where it is and I can see it with my epic mana sight. Watch your back, bud." Veil watching relies far too much on OTHER things or magics happening rather than moving the RP THEMSELVES. If anyone were to rewrite the feat (or it gets shelved, idc), it should focus on making it more fun to interact with the feat in a self-sufficient way rather than just sitting in your tea time room and watching if anything gets posted that relates to their feat.

Ak-Rullaz, on his travels to find exotic and rare ingredients, comes across a human peasant who was looking at the missive. The man notices the stonekin and points in query, “What does this say?” The Golem read the missive in his ever loud blaring tone, the man covering his ears slightly at the volume. “Oh. I’m not exactly blind… But I do feel deaf now.”

[!] This post is a vision which was received in role-play by one of my characters. This is not public knowledge outside of the members of the Absolutist Faith. 🜲 VOW UNTO ME ♪♫♪ 🜲 On surface water of an azure river flood, The brother raised a gilded chalice to his lips. Filled with a sweet aged wine, hued with deep crimson blood, He imbibed deep, into the blackest depths he dips. The curtain rises at the top of the hour, A story of a king and his fall from power. Verses of honeyed rhyme and song echo to the solemn mind of the brother, a hallowed choir of the same dissonant voice so close and familiar yet have no mouths to speak. He hears the unharmonious words, but has no ears to listen. He gazes in the hall before him, yet he has no eyes to see. The brother is a ghost, a specter, he does not exist, yet he observes unblinkingly like a captivated audience at the climax of a stage play. Colossal pillars of black stone stand like soldiers adjacent to crimson draped walls that droop half-way to the floor. Soft sunlight shines through a single fire-hued stained-glass window, the red glow beating against the back of a throne of gold with linings of black leather. Obscured from it, a king with a heavy crown sits upon the throne, bound head to toe in the same crimson fabrics seen on the walls that hide his guise. Each ribbon in one way or another binds the king to the throne, some extrude to the towering pillars, constricting around them tightly at a quarter of each’s length. The king’s head is tilted downwards to a long shadow that rests before him, upon the surface of an ankle deep pool of blood that rippled at the slightest movements, rippling the cast shadow which ends inches away from a set of heavy basalt doors at the threshold. Each slab exhibiting elegant reliefs of exorbitant grandeur and legendary deeds long past. 🜲 Hark! The king sits upon his gems and hoarded treasure, With fists of iron and hands of gold, a monarch’s mark. Holding kingdom and court unequal in measure, The crown on his brow weighs heavy, a ruler’s work. Yet, footsteps shuffle as a courtier’s presence looms, The black stone gates make way for the king and his tomb. The chorus subsides, the silence after shatters as the basalt doors grind against each other, pushing inwards at snail’s pace. The piled pale dust and cobwebs, long abandoned by their hosts, shake and flutter off the elegant reliefs. The lids of the great sarcophagus halt, as from the abyss without shuffles a man of fragile build. He is deathly pale, his body emaciated, leaving nothing but sunken eyes and pored bones threatening to snap at the slightest pressure. Clenched tightly to his ribs is a tome with no title nor marks. Loose pages hinge from the spine, leaking strands of ink that trail behind and stain the scribe’s ragged robes. The king lifts his head as the scribe stops before him, the ribbons straining and stretching as he did. The scribe bends one knee in supplication, the blood wavering as he offers the spotted tome with pigment coated hands with outstretched arms, his shaggy hair trailing with his downward face. The king directs his head to the pool before his feet, commanding his courtier with utmost silence. The loyal scribe follows, placing the book before him. The ink spreads from it like tendrils within the now tainted blood it floats upon. The king goes to raise his golden hand, twitching and straining against the cloths that bind it to the arm of his throne. However, the harder he pulls, the tighter his prison grips. The scribe rises once more, one knee soaked in a marbling of ink and blood. He gives one last courtesy to the king as he wades to the gates once more, leaving the king within his silent tomb as he fades into the abyss. 🜲 Hail to the generous crown with his golden hand, Who gives to the loyal his treasure and good food. His gluttonous feasts are the finest in the land, A means to an end to keep his subjects subdued. Yet, a vassal of great renown comes to concord, Yet the crown is enraged by the elderly lord. The chorus ends, another man passes the basalt doors from the abyss unhindered. His visage is wrinkled and his hair is grayed. Yet, he still stands proudly and poised, carrying himself with pride and strength. The lord wears finely woven silks and linens, hued purple and blue, by dyes of faraway nations. His luxurious cloak lined with white fur gusts behind as approaches. He stops before the throne, closer than the scribe. He bows his torso to the king, a hand upon his heart and eyes closed. The king shivers and seizures as he angrily lurches forth, a rage and hatred so fierce he could be mistaken as a starving wolf. The binds upon him disagree with his sudden outburst, dragging his body with a heavy snap backwards, slamming his spine to the throne. He struggles with all his might, twisting like a fish upon shore until he floundered no more. Yet the pressure of his bottomless wrath ebbed like a harsh storm, tunneling solely into the lord before him. The lord did not notice or care for the king’s anger, bowing his head once again in utmost respect or understanding as he pivoted quickly, the cape flowing as he left. The king sat alone again as his head lowered to the long shadow. 🜲 Hail to the wrathful tyrant with his iron fist, Who lashes blindly at his lesser and greater. Despite the body’s sudden turns and violent twists, All conquerors are bound to the one creator. The despot, alone with his one and only friend, Now fears that it too will forget his final end. The chorus fades, the hall is deathly silent. The glow which shone, so bright, fades as hours passed without any more subjects. The sun sets and the moonless night rises. The shadow grows unto darkens, devouring all. The ink which spread at his feet is indistinguishable with the blood. At midnight, the fabrics which bound begin to unravel. The king raises his iron hand before his featureless face. The cloths of his forearm slump downwards, revealing nothing but air beneath. The iron hand splashes as it collapses into the darkness below, it too devoured by the shadow. The king, now free, shakily lifts himself from the throne. He stumbles, turning around to the stained-glass, the time was dark before dawn. Tripping forwards to the window, the king’s vestiges loosen with every heavy step. He stops before the panes, leaning his half remaining body against the sill. The sun rises on the horizon, a blinding light that casts out the dark. The king reaches out with a golden hand, seeing the beautiful morning, pushing the red glass outwards. Before him was more golden than any treasure. At the apex of his reach, the golden hand falls, the owner gone. 🜲 Hail to the now divine soul without hands nor fists, Who turned to golden light purer than any coin. Unfettered within, his egoless self exists. Unfettered without, brothers and sisters he joins. The free man, alone with his one and only friend, Unravels himself to nothingness and ascends.

Zabub’Lur, way past his prime, tightens his clutch around the missive. A vein pulsing upon his forehead. His tusks grit with pure anger, throwing the missive onto the floor and stomping on it multiple times.