someome

Elenor

**** that ima make myself some guac. He can get his own. I can answer this knowingly saying yes. You've never experienced a sleepy syb. She might as well be a worm.

I've actually thought alot on this recently. Full disclosure, I am a mess. My back is completely busted, one of my legs doesn't work most days, I can barely go outside without someone being with me or I completely shut down, and as of this summer I got diagnosed with rather severe bi polar. I am a mess, and my inability to control it for awhile costed me some close friends. Noone on lotc has any illusions that it isn't unhealthy as hell. It takes a precarious balance to prevent yourself from falling into the potholes of shittery that happens so often. But in the end, I think why I am still here, is cause I, in the end, enjoy helping, and I enjoy the friends I still have. Yeah, I get accused of nasty stuff all the time for being a druid player. ANd I'm not the most responsive human being. But I enjoy making stories for people. I enjoy helping the communities I am in, be it amending and maintaining lore, helping players that are struggling. I can't work anymore, as I await SSI and Medicaid to actually help me. The feeling that I am doing something somewhat job like and slightly productive does help. So in the end I'm still here because while I can be an immense shithead. I want to help people. I want to make this place just a little more fun, just a little less shitty, somehow, someway. And I'll probably leave one day, maybe just for awhile, maybe for good, who knows. But until then I am here, and I am willing to help people if they are willing to trust me jacked up brain to do the right thing.

Only slightly brain damaged Know the players you are providing for. And if you don't, get to know them. I am a long time druid player, as a result some of my best events are druid events because I know the whole of that community intimately. So when I have to do events for people I don't know, I try to get to know them. Learn them. Different groups and different people find different interactions fun. I'm not saying be friends with everyone, I'm a anxiety ridden mess, but if you know your audience, the quality you can provide becomes exponentially better!

I bet 90% of people assume I'd say like, my computer or something, but nah. The first Fathers Day card I got from Emma after me and Syb got together, on my fridge. I cried when she came home with it and gave it to me.

Me and my daughter will **** up some grapes

The Gifts of the Magician. I had a picture book of it when I was very small, and I wish I still had it. I probably couldnt retell it like that though lol. It's a strange one. That's hard to say, cause I mostly just play Hareven, and as you know I tend to play him fast and loose, so alot of nice memories come as a result. Most of the best ones are whenever its chilled out tavern or family rp. But outside of characters, anytime people walk away from an event I DM satisfied. I do my best to not railroad, to let the players build and experience the story as they go on through the event, and I just tryy and bind it all nice and neat so it feels cohesive, like they're making changes in the world. Knowing I did the job well just feels good. Yes but my body might be turning lactose intolerant lately which if so, I will cry. I read a lot so this is hard but I remember when the Graveyard Book came out I outright tried getting my highschool to sell me the copy they got cause I adored it so much. And as for ones that made me want to right, I cannot remember the author but he wrote a couple of books, all standalones, and each one took pov's of just people in their lives living them, some of them a little weirder than others, but you can kinda see the influence whenever I make a rp forum post. I enjoy feeling like I am in the story, I enjoy the ones that make me forget everything but it for a little while. But its been so long I'd have to dig to remember that author. That said as far as recent influences, The Inheritance Trilogy is a solid read (not the Eragon books, these are waaaaay different).

*Repeats title here* I've been disabled for about a year and a half now and finally making progress to getting some help for many of the issues. I am also, very bored. Shoot me some questions to entertain your resident druid dude.

I believe they should be banned. So no, not really. That is my formative opinion on interactions with them. Same for you being an ass. Take me on my word or don't. If I knew the reason they were banned, I'd blast them on here myself.

The Grey-Man, still in his rocking chair upon his porch, smiles to the delivery boy who lends him his weekly news Flipping the pages with a cup of Doldgers Name Brand Coffee, he comes across the news, and spits his coffee out "What the shit??!"

A grey-man shuffles open his newspaper with a grump and squints at the news "What the shit?"

What's your first memory of me? What's your favorite comfort food? Why wont you touch your shoeshi?

As was his usual whim, the grey man could not be found right away. But several things about left show he was never in doubt. A fresh stew on a barely living flame to keep it ready. A clean dress and comb sat outside her and Taals room. A bath drawn up with medicinal salves lined up. He may not be found right away sometimes, but he was never in doubt.

"Eve..everyon.." Then nothing "Shit" He thought, as his body failed him and he hit the forest floor. A culmination of the day, may haps. But then he awoke. He knew this. This sensation brought about the long past memories of the first time, as he stared up at seemingly unending mountains from his one remaining eye. He'd start forward, wading through the untamed grass and heading his way towards the mountains. They called to him and so he would answer. Every landmark forward carried a reminder. A stags disappointed gaze from the distance. Wilted azaleas dotting the edges of the riversides he waded through. Shadows that seemed to whip around and follow his stride. The owls that watched from high. He felt all too aware of them, and more. His failings and mistakes. That which he failed. That which he should not have trusted. That which he failed to kill himself. That which he continued to fail to live up to. More fell upon him as the snowfall began while he crested past the beginning of the hike. But amongst the bad, his personal failings, came the good. Bears plenty waddling into their dens. Raccoons and other animals doing the same. The snow itself, barely giving him a bite of cold. A mountain lamb watching with untold patience. The very same owls. The cats eye of snowy lynxes. Grand, sleepy moose. Why now? What happened? He let a hand drift against the side of colossal trees, barren from the sheer cold. Clambering over towering roots like a child escaping a playpen. Was it the eye? He'd sacrificed before though. A gale pushed through him, and he took refuge in a cranny. Easily found thanks to the sheer size of the boreal giants that were the trees. As he watched the snows, and settled in. He could swear he could see his own parents in the flurries. Impossible. They rested within the Skies. But in the sheer cold, he appreciated the sight. The assurance. A dwarven runt alongside the six kids of their own, and they raised him no differently. They could have given him away. Sent him to the Undermountain. He would have been different. Not Hareven. Not Bluejay. Not [________] He'd wince as the last pulled through his mind and pulled himself together, wading further through the flurries to find himself upon a cliff. A ravine. A body. His sight caught by it, pinned to the adjacent mountain. To the sword that pierced its chest. Trying to press it from his mind as he made his way further up to the peak, blasted by the west winds and blades of frigid air. He knew who it was though. It was he, who he was. The old him, who had forgotten himself. And wrought so much damage to all he cared of. Cause he thought he was better. That he could weather it all, handle it himself. No matter how he turned and twisted upwards the Mountain, it never left his sight. Of course. A penalty in his own vision. But at last, he crested the peak, and held onto the single, unusual hand hold upon its snowy top. He grabbed the plum tree, and held himself upright. He saw everything. Every creature that relied on the mountain. Snowy foxes. Elk drinking of the rivers that flowed from its sides. Animals nested within the trees and caved adorned it. Everything he'd seen on his climb up, from a new perspective. The winds drove upwards, and he turned to see the skeleton of his past growing into a new forest. The blade rusting and turning into nothing but a fine, red dust. The gales continued to turn his attention, noticing every little thing that had grown to rely on his mountain. And the others beside it. And likely, every other. He grit his teeth, and came to fall onto his knees, letting out a bellowing cry as tears flowed from his remaining eye. He let loose one bellowing cry. Aimed to the starry sky that rested above his head, to the full moon that adorned it. And awoke. He pushed himself up from the soil he fell on, and noticed his squirrelish sister and hopheaded sister in law camped out nearby. They couldn't move him in his stupor. Together they gathered themselves up and headed home. Hareven carrying a new feeling within him. He would always be himself. He'd always be Bluejay. That's where he started. But from this moment forward. He was the Brother of the Mountains. And he'd do his upmost to be something that could support his druid kin. Blessed be.

Hareven screams freedom off a cliffside for his brother

A Grey-Man would sit within one of his abodes, a violet wash of his own blood welling from the stigmata on his chest.. "I hope it is all worth it..." A simple bottle tilts back, and his friend for the evening would be the ceiling above..

-=The Village of Oswin=- -=- Deep into the redwoods of the Hinterlands, off the road to Elvenesse, lies a quaint village full of all types of folk. What started as just a tavern called The Owl’s Perch, soon grew into a hamlet for all those who would call the brewery home. The disease that ran rampant on the halflings who once resided there has since been purged, and the land fertilized by the ashes of Azdromoth’s attempt on the region. A place for circless druids, wanderers, or those who simply wish for a place to settle, Oswin was made for folk to be free; a borough in which you can begin anew. It is for this purpose that the founder, Hareven Lorenthus, sought to create Oswin, and welcomes people into its clearing. The Village Rules -=- No stealing and breaking into homes. No dark creatures, dark magics, or voidal magics of any kind. Using any or being any of the above within the Village will lead to you being blinded and thrown out on a good day. Death on an okay day. Don’t think too hard about what'll happen on a bad day. The rules of Elvenesse do not influence our own unless stated otherwise, but that does not mean Elvenesse criminals can seek sanctuary here. All villagers will be expected to uphold and enforce the law to their own preference. As nicely or as roughly as you see fit. Sword or with words. It doesn't matter. If you find yourself in an argument with someone that cannot be solved with words, you may choose a form of combat or game to settle such. A steward or village elder must approve and watch over the happenings, and it cannot be lethal. No turning people into nuggets or other fates worse than death either. Public Religious Iconography is fine as long as it is not voidal or dark in nature. We don’t care what you worship, just don’t be a fuckwit. No Walls. We will build gallows made of mice before we surround ourselves with walls. If you cause trouble in other lands, those lands will be your problem. If you start something, you will see it to the end, not drag us all down. Oswin exists for free folk. For those who wish to live simply and aspire to chase whatever dreams they may hold. As long as someone's path does not harm others, all gifts will be fostered here, and those who wish to come and go are welcome. If you have to ask yourself if something is or isn’t allowed. Ask Hareven or a Steward. Don’t expand homes or make new buildings without running it by Hareven and the rest of the town. There’s a lot of Hinterlands and a lot of space but we don’t want to ruin it for when we eventually leave. If you want to live happily here, don’t piss off everyone else. You can be removed. Oswin Management -=- Mayor: Hareven Lorenthus Stewards: Leniandir Lorenthus, Valerica Tathvir, Sonna Vuln’miruel -=- We can use folks of all sorts and talents. Come foster your work and duties. Grow and improve. Or get drunk working the fields. We are free folk! -=- Want to get started in Oswin? Contact Keefy#0001, Sybbyl#0002, Mewliet#6297 or Junoix#0001!

The First Month How many years had it been, since he'd received his hunting task. Scant past the age of fifty, give or take. Nearly three hundred years since he dropped a wyverns head before the pair that sought to try and guide him. How long ago that was, he thought as he stacked his tools neatly, securely tucked away in one of his many hidden nooks and crannies, leaving Vaki behind to keep mind of the Perch and resting his cleaver on the bedside. She would understand. He even slipped his boots off, leaving himself naught but trousers and a simple shirt as he took off running, north-bound. Dig deep. Pull it all in. Be not a druid in these woods, do not let the beasts and fauna treat you so courteously. Be foreign. Be man, isolated again. Let the deer scamper at the sound of you. The crows and vultures wish for you to perish and be carrion to feast on. Let your insides churn, your skin feel the sting of the snow and heat of the sun, like they once did. These changes made simply and internally, adjusting his unending form to fit the given task as he knapped away at a rock. A rock became a knife. Branches became the first spear, the first arrows, more rocks, the first of meals, the travel. Until his shoulders and feet were covered in the leathers of deer, their meat in reserves and bones found way. And he began searching. The Third Month It wasn't hard to miss the beast. Finding one hadn't proven the issue. It moved. Scarcely sedentary for longer than it took to consume and move on, deer or some unfortunate farmers cattle likely, cleaved into pieces. The task at hand to wait for it to stop. With thanks to the Lords, it was a large creature, so tracking after latching onto the trail of one proved not hard, just a matter of concealing himself from becoming a carving by it and its hunger. The issue came in when to strike. Two options passed as ideal. As ideal as one could wish for, circumstances presented. One was to drop on it while it ate, but to interrupt a keen beast with its blood up from eating could go either way. And it hardly chose simple places to make such a attempt, or for trapping at that. Cliffsides, the tops of trees, not much for the man and his figure to be discrete. The other just as favorable, even less so, but with more options. Avian it was, and mating would arise at some point. With that a nest. Two of them would be present, but with the brief time-period to consolidate an area and plan, and a mate tired from laying eggs, a male busy providing for two, gaps would arise. He stayed crouched by a meager fire, half-resting at dawn crested, and thought on this, his brought clothes all but replaced with crudely sewn replacements of roughly tanned leathers and furs. He watched the embers burn away, and upon hearing the rustling of his unawares companion leaving it's sleep, drew two signs in the ground far apart. He drew an arrow, and simply tossed it high. Whatever it pointed at, an x and o, would be his plan. X for a blitz during a moment unawares. O for biding the months, maybe years, and striking. The arrow had landed. O. The Seventh Month Mistakes. Just one but it was enough as he dashed for underbrush. The crags and cliffs of the north, and sparse forest life, made a hungry stomach a mistake. A deer was felled, but care was not taken, and a bear stirred and chased. Itself not the particular issue, but the noise it brought. It might call it to the location, and a man, upon snow and slick soil, could not outrun either. He had hoped the bear a mother when it first charged him, but to no avail it continued. He took to a mad dash toward the deer, previously a scant fifteen, maybe twenty yards, now perilously long, out of hope that the idea of a meal might dissuade the bear, as a roar echoed behind him and encroached. Then nothing but a ringing pain in his ears, stunning the man, and a gust of wind strong enough to send him reeling into a nearby mound of snow. He laid there for what could have only been minutes but felt much longer, awaiting...anything, but heard nothing for a long, drawn out moment. It slowly came back to him, and the bellowing of the bear echoed from afar. A good sign, perhaps, before the bear returned. But from above, a sickening crack, its body nearly falling to pieces as it tore branches down. And a moment after, it came down, for its meal. He pressed himself deeper, as deep as he could, into the snow, and stayed starkly still. He was in no position to act. And the beast would likely simply shred him in this pensive moment. The shadows moved, and after long enough, it finished and took off. The man didn't care at the moment, seeking shelter first after he was sure it had left. A rush to put up a small tent and a small fire. Disrobed to dry and warm from the snow, the gravity of his task increased. He had known of the shrieks but had not realized how intense it was. But he would remember this, and he would adapt apt. He would return for the deer on warming, and feast, and think. The Ninth Month They had started, as did he. Two different tasks. They began assembling their nest, the duo, and he began consolidating. Staying as far from them as he could justify whilst doing his work, checking on them and their progress when time allowed, he carved, and formed, weaved and felled. He tread carefully, and took to applying his knowledge where he could. Traps, as crude as they were, assembled from what he could hunt and forage, placed where he could, with hope, reach if a need to retreat became apparent. Any logs he could fell were repurposed, anything hunted was stripped of all usefulness and scattered to hide any trace of his scent when the Male took to hunt himself. Two weeks had passed, and if any other descendant crossed these woods, they would have thought it was prepared for the crudest of battles. Their nest was finished, and while his work continued, the man waited for the moment the Female would lay. It could be two days, weeks, maybe longer. They were large beasts and he had little knowledge of them to base, just that of their smaller counterparts amongst the corvids. But any minute was a minute to be prepared. To have a sharpened blade. Any claddings he could made would likely do little. He'd seen the one he followed cleave trees apart to ****** prey. Leathers and furs would do nothing. His traps encroached closer to them, but it was a necessary risk. He could do no less. It wouldn't be acceptable. The Tenth Month Two weeks had passed and it seemed the day had come. Busy with birth, keeping watch, he had spent the previous three nights concealed slightly above their cliff-nest, scarcely moving for nothing but half-sleep, and the minimum of food and water. They had stopped moving, even hunting, so the time had to be close. And he was right. Nestled at his side, the bow he first carved along this path. A handful of arrows. A serrated bone 'sword' he hesitated to call such, made for a singular task he could not risk failing. A length of roughly woven rope that could not afford to break, hammered into the ground cautiously with a stake that would kill him if it failed. And this to simply take the female out, yet to come was the male, likely to be enraged. Hours passed after the laying, and it left. The Male. To hunt and gather food to strengthen its mate once again, after producing five eggs whose size was enough he'd not be surprised if a halfling could snug into. He crept forward, and prepared, putting the bow around himself and grasping the serrated tool for this. A mound of grave-wax formed from the corpses of hunts roughly stuffed into his ears, it would not prevent all the shock, but hopefully buy him a modicum of safety. He dropped. The nape of its neck, he rapidly took to trying to gain purchase onto mounds of feathers. She immediately tried to move, but faltered. For the safety of her clutch, mayhaps? It mattered not. His legs mounted, and as its chest swelled, it's singular task was performed, the rough-shod sword. He carved. He pulled once. Twice. Three times. Enough until he was positive that the Females voice faltered, that its mantle of feathers could not keep it safe, that blood welled from the wound, and when he was sure, he tore the tool loose, lodged it in the joint of one of its wings and twisted, snapping it and ending its part to play, and began pulling the rope. And himself. Ascending rapidly, it would die but it was no waiting game to be played, and there was a chance it made enough noise to call the Male. His fingers stung as he pulled himself onto the cliff face, and cut the rope from him with haste. He could hear pained noises from the Female, a rustling of wings, and claws on stone. The ending play of the sword stalled enough, and it was weakening. So he ran for the woods, and in the evening sun, he could see the Male. He would not hide or try to avoid its sight. Come. The wax and distance proved somewhat effective as a shriek of shrieks, one he would not be surprised rattled the Lords themselves, filled the air. Presumably it stopped to the nest, but a glance showed its pursuit. He dived into the woods he had chosen, and turned over a cluster of treasures, for this moment, from the bottom of many lakes and rivers along the way, glazed and shining in the evening light. Naught but stones, but a birds eyes were keen, and he huddled near their location, and waited. He knew it was fast. He knew birds could not smell keenly as other beasts. He was one, as it was, so he would know. And more importantly, he knew how it would hunt. It never worried about what it dove into, its claws would sheer normal trees apart, flesh and more. It never expected the trees to hurt. Carved to a tip and propped up upon others, it dove down. None hit vitals, damned be all, but the man saw blood well up. A wing tattered. One pierced firmly by one of the half dozen logs made a pitfall for a avian. It would do, he had more. He dashed out and away from it, loosing a single arrow mid stride. No stance took, it wouldn't do anything, it probably didn't even make it past the creatures feathers, but it knew where he was. It tried to fly, but its wounds hampered it. But it still had a beak, and it still had its claws. It tore through the base of that which still pinned it, and took to cleaving its way in his direction. It would not have surprised the man if he had soiled himself, but he dashed and zig-zagged through the woods. Pittances stalled its way. A snare of rope level for its neck snapped away by its beak. Others, for legs, ripped away with sheer force or cut away. The last would have to work though. Once more, he could not **** this up or it was all for naught. He ran down the way, into a clearing. Rope crossed through all manner of trees, but it had learned, even in its anger, and tore away at them all with its beak, and in that moment. The man cut a rope. It bore down onto it, missing vitals, but sheered two logs into its back. And as it faltered from the pain, he cut one more. It swung in from its left, impaling it from the side. The greater lodged in its back, and the lesser log in its chest. Tension Traps. Appropriately large ones at that. It began to try and rear the strength to scream, to wrench away, but it had been crippled. It's wings provided no help, its talons unable to cut it free without any build up, and it was losing far too much blood. It found the strength to drag itself forward, but this spot had been made for this task. And two others as well. Time was an effective tool, in a hunt. In one as long as this. This man knew his strengths and used them. A third would careen down, both spikes missing, but slamming the Males head down. He looked the crowdrake in the eyes, and draw back an arrow from his bow. He had abstained from mixing poisons. It wouldn't have felt right, however easy. But this. He loosed the arrow into its skull. Another into its eye, and a third next to the first. He never looked away. The Return A few days had passed. Mostly spent consolidating the two bodies, bleeding them, and taking great care to remove from the Male the traps laid. He began working on a cart. A rough one, but something to help him haul the two back. Nothing was without use on the hunted, and with the great talons they had, and great bones, light and large for bows, many would find use. He carved away, rudimentary axels and wheels carved out. It would probably need fixing three times over or more, as he pulls it back, but it would work. A few more days to undo the trapped forest, and scatter the signs of himself, before becoming unto a work horse, and pulling the cart. Their eggs made rations. There was no point in waste, nor in trying to hatch them. Great birds of prey, raising them would take from them, and so they made meals. As did meat of the crow drakes, and any preserved meat he had left. He thought about a great many things. He compared himself to the younger him, who rushed so brazenly up a mountain to slay a wyvern with almost no preparation, to the man he was now who spent such time considering and waiting. Learning. But mostly he emptied his head, and let it slowly eek back into him. It took a little while. The song grew a little louder, and he felt a little more himself. He felt nature relax more about him, and the weather grew warmer. He'd pass by confused human merchants along the way. Most said nothing, a few words exchanged with others, even a look of relief. Likely a fellow who had been near the torment of those similar to the pair. But eventually that came to an end. He stopped before the Vale, and rolled his shoulders. And pulled the cart inside, his Trial. Done.

Denied.

This Lore has been accepted. Moved to Implemented Lore, it will be sorted to it's appropriate category soon. Please note that if this is playable lore, such as a magic or CA, you will need to write a guide for this piece. You will be contacted regarding the guide (or implementation if it isn’t needed) shortly.