Wand

The Holy/Dark conflict in the past has had the problem of man-hunting and toxicity from both sides. This is how we ended up with Ascended/Clerics in the past going out to hunt spooks. It became less a need to uphold their duties and moreso ‘let’s beat up a bunch of bad guys, because that’s what good guys do’. I see no issue with having zealous holy users or more neutral ‘Dark’ magic users as long as it suits the character. There’s too many cases of both running rampant: zealotry without clearly defining what is ‘Dark’ beyond an OOC attachment or mechanic; neutrality from Dark magics who still want the best of both worlds and don’t wish their personal life be affected by sacrificial rituals or unnatural creatures. While the lore should be considerate of other Dark/Holy groups, it’s problematic for anyone to form their identity as a magic based off the identities of others first. If anything should be more strictly defined as to how to treat such beings, it should be the Aeungu-Daemons, not necessarily their followers. Not every player however might accurately define for their characters what ‘good’ or ‘holy’ even is, however, and the server’s lore can get quite tricky. Clerics for example as many think of them come from Dungeons & Dragons, which has alignments attached to them – something which while the Lore Team could tie to various Aeungu-Daemons, cannot easily do so to characters. Sure your Holy-Man could purge away any spooks seen, but the average Descendant has to worry about banditry, assault, slavery and more – which are often worse crimes to some than a skeleton doing parlor tricks over in the town square. I suppose the best question for clerics and holy mages is, what makes them different than an average man with a dislike for undead and a sword that hurts undead extra-good? And what purposes could they fulfill beyond that basic encounter? (Granted, folks going around tapping everything with aurum/slayersteel poses the same problems as people using Clerics/Paladins/Ascended to meta-scan dark mages in the past – in which case just report those folks.) Again, beyond the ‘good guys beat up bad guys, and because they’re good, they should win’ attitude I see sometimes.

The elf held his palm over the long suffered mark of Agony's doing, which marred his left bicep. Legions of demons, undead at beck and call... seen with his own eyes years ago, and it their numbers had only increased. He hoped the information provided would be enough to begin to root out the Dark: that none may suffer the wicked malflame again. In lacking of such, his mind was filled with the plans of a holy armoury. Such was his Oath, his heritage, his purpose. The call would be put forth after his signature. "I shall make the rounds, and be certain we are prepared for the fight ahead. To combat the truly wicked and the dark - and speak of the Darkness which still lies before us."

Had some great times with you as Daichi, best of luck, dude.

§1.12 Unlocked chests may be taken from freely. Folks can indeed take from your chests if they aren’t locked, so I recommend doing so with any and all containers you own. I also recommend locking all means of entrance, such as fence gates and more. Remember to still roleplay your attempts and actions. You must have a valid reason for said actions. For example do not simply do /smash without proper roleplay leading up to said action and you do not just break windows to break windows. This still applied to the thief, especially so if you live in a settlement and your neighbors were robbed. You could always ask a moderator to ensure proper breaking and entering RP occurred as far as the locked door is concerned, but there’s otherwise nothing stopping the person from robbing your house if you’re offline. I recommend checking the Breaking & Entering section under the Server Rules to make sure you’re covered for the future. Item frames for example can’t be stolen by a random thief, but only in a heist.

Can you sing meme town for us

[!] A simple letter was nailed to the notice boards in the southern lands, the script slanted and neat, smelling of honey. I may answer your query. I witnessed the latter half of the battle and have an experience to offer for history's own sake. I offer this to any with an open mind and compassion for fellow Descendants. -Amber

The elf duly signs.

The prince duly signs.

TREATY OF AEGROTHOND, 1715 WE, the Bodies of Representatives from Our Fair Nations, do solemnly declare the following decrees as correct and true; I. The Holy Orenian Empire and The Crown of Elvenesse do solemnly declare a pact of non-aggression between both nations; II. The Holy Orenian Empire and The Crown of Elvenesse do solemnly declare a pact of alliance for the duration of the war against the Pertinaxi rebels; III. The Holy Orenian Empire and The Crown of Elvenesse do solemnly declare an establishment of embassies between each nation; IV. The Holy Orenian Empire does solemnly recognize the Elvenesse’s independence from the High Elven people; V. The Crown of Elvenesse does solemnly recognize Joseph de Marna as the rightful Emperor and denounces the Pertinaxi Dynasty; SIGNED, Joseph I, Holy Orenian Emperor Fëanor Sylvaeri, High Prince of Elvenesse

Imperial hands set upon the fallen High Prince, his nostrils and lungs rendered aching by his last breath of sea-water in his bold attempt for escape. Once before the elf had been consumed by the shallows of the bay surrounding Aegrothond. Now in Arcas, he was dragged under and into unwitting slumber, freed from his drowned state only to be bound and dragged into a slender Imperial schooner. Mounting cries from Elven militia, Fennic soldiers would prelude the fall of the captor’s vanguard. Time had been bought for the captor and his prize - the High Prince Fëanor Sylvaeri. This elf did dream. Where darkness smote out the light of his eyes and dizzied him with each step. His lungs would burn, and the heat of many hearths burnt upon his back, pressing him down and drying him to bone. He was without water, without rations, and the ache of thirst and food might drive a man mad. The elf would find himself before the threshold of his childhood’s home, and a voice from within bade him enter. “Rest, my son,” asked the voice of his tired mother. And so he did. The first night was over, the prince retrieved from foreign shores. His people and allies were relieved and they did rejoice in his safety, for he bore no mortal wounds but two swollen bumps atop his scalp. Yet he did not wake. When he dreamed again, fire crept through his body, trickling beneath the silvered plating of the elf. For he was young, careless, and knew not the dangers of the Twisted Ones. Sinewy olive skin rippling with its unholy flames, its hatred marked by its terrible sclera and demonic gaze - red like the coals with which the smith worked, and as potent to burn. Burn he would, for a minute or more - but the fire would persist through his soul and every nerve, that it might torture him for a lifetime. He would keep Abyzou’s Khopesh for a time, and keep the hatred of the Infernal forevermore; for because of them he would only know agony for a decade. “Rest, nephew,” advised a warlord, now lost to the Wilds. And he did rest. The second night followed. A worried healer and bride kept close vigil over him, and the people waited. He did not wake. He next dreamed of the Atlas seas, scorching heat trying the nerves of the bronze-plated elf as he sailed North. He remembered the pain of the second betrayal to his family, which would take advantage of his patient. The Warlord did stir but not wake in the simple vessel, each but one of his limbs broken and his visage mauled. He lived by mediocre field aid and a sling to preserve his good arm. By this, The Warlord would keep an arm - but lose all else to clockwork. He would know the dulled thud of each limb as they hit the laboratory floor. And he would turn away to the clinic, where the weight of betrayal and grief did test his resolve. “Rest, Flameborne,” urged his father, in a careful half-embrace. And he did rest. The third night fell, and the bruises of his harrowing ordeal were cleared away. His wife kept vigil, and the people inquired. Still, he did not wake. The elf dreamed then of ash and mud. Feverish nightmares which could end in few ways for the elf - talons ripping his innards apart for the sake of the Wild Gods. Riddles answered with druidic terms he did not love to use. For he was pale though dark in hair, too tall, and his eyes did glow. They were not his people, and so he took company in others. One, a small woman once close to Light, and a mage whose gifts would be his salvation more than once. “Rest, llir,” his best friends guided him down. And he rested gladly. The fourth night fell. His wife and the people worried. But he did not wake. He would dream of the strife brought by the Elven Crown and all its competitors. And he forged for himself a bronze circlet, a test. But it did not ease the weary gazes of those around him, for his father was Outcast, and his whole line of ancestors Outcast. He would stay for his soldiers and for those sacrificed by the Dominion’s father. Father. He would know the paranoia brought by those that would pierce the Veil, the madness of those who delved into it. Or into purple trees or September Cultists. He would know war. “Rest, Lord Sylvaeri,” bade a druidess of Ironwood. And he did reluctantly. The fifth night. No word of his waking travelled the Realm of Elves. He would dream of murk and roots. The days of chasing dreams would come to end, for there was no glory, no use in throwing himself away for a futile dream. Truth and wisdom would come from the earth, for it was more true, more safe than the vast sky, which often carried calamity on the winds and with the passing of time. There was no trusting the stars. For they had betrayed his ancestor and his father and mother. He would be made wise by cruel, bloody truths; in the killing of many beasts at land and sea. “Rest,” whispered the roots. And he did so, numb and cold. The sixth night passed. He would dream of the sea. He would float adrift, accompanied by the trills of dolphins. The sun would set and stars speckle the following darkness. Seven nights would pass in this dream, phases of cold, then hot. And upon the fifth day he knew the pattern, and saw the constellation of the Mariner. On the sixth eve he awaited it. But on the seventh eve, the stars did separate and fall. Then there was no sky or sea. There was no land. Only he, the darkness and the stars remained. They glowed as his eyes, silver and persistent - but they began to burn away, and only one remained, as it cast itself into the depths. Then from his own mouth, he said, “Rest.” And he knew his folly. On the seventh eve, when midnight passed, a noise was heard from the elf’s bed chambers. The taste of brine and the still airs of his room sickened him, but he did not heave or bend. His wife, dutiful, faithful, and kind would guide him to rest and be certain of his health. “Rest,” she said with love. And though he would, he felt he had slept for a generation. The word soon travelled of his good health, and soon after it travelled of his work. It was said he could gleam stars from steel.

His Eminence duly signs.

I’ve used MCSkin3D for a few years myself.

FlayboyMagazine was probably one of my better puns, glad you used it. You’re pretty alright.

To be a healer was to expose yourself to gore, to the varying measures of flesh and bone between the mortal races, to know the blood you work with. A studious doctor took measurements, would know surgery. This grim intimacy, familiarity with flesh often involved the study of cadavers. Should the healer be meek or sympathetic to the body before them, this could extend to respectful treatment of the dead. Healing could be an undertaking in each sense of the word. Although a healer’s dedication was to stave off the creep of death, they were not always successful. Not all corpses possessed next of kin. Not all souls would be wept over or remembered. Inevitably, decay and the creatures which feast upon it would need to be staved off or else the corpse become a feast for scavengers. Tanager Volaeren’s body was dry upon the cliff-face, framed neatly by an arch of carved bricks. Once it had been a door’s frame. The stone wall was little more than a surface to catch sunlight through the hawthorn canopies of the tropical isle. It should smell of rot. This was the first thought which occupied Fëanor Sylvaeri’s mind. The space was surprisingly arid in what was a normally humid section: they were close to the baths, after all. Turge, who had led Fëanor and Albatross Volaren there, slumps the broken carcass of the freshy slain Jim (a rascal of a man but otherwise weak and less than memorable) next to Tanager’s body. The human had been decapitated. The elf was mostly whole, and his living cousin knelt in examination then prayer to pay respects. This was a matter of not one, but two burials. A pyre for Tanager, and a simple burning for the slain Jim, whose presence had promised the Isle only deceit and suspicion of his character. Both would need to be disposed of quickly, so as to not tempt scavengers of the dead. Fëanor was displeased with the idea of disposing an honorable cadaver in conjunction with a petty troublemaker, and the elf expressed as much to those present. It was a request of Albatross on how he would like his cousin sent away. The cousin said as much of the matter of funeral: “Yes, the All-Father would deem it most important that my cousin be burned effective immediately.” Fëanor would gather the larger logs for the funeral pyre’s palette base. Long strips of crude spruce boards, kindling and more were gathered, then cut and stacked. Assembled within the hour, the neat palette rose three meters high upon the cliff. More the work of a carpenter than a warrior or smith, though none upon the Isles would question the origins of this Sylvaeri’s knowledge of undertaking. How grim, that he had learned to bury, embalm, and burn the dead from the same mother who had instructed him in healing, in the protection of others… It had been too late to properly embalm Tanager’s corpse, but the elf, with aid of Albatross, could spare him honor and decency. Crimson silk, later to be implemented into the signature armor of the Isles, was wrapped across Tanager in a manner of crude mummification. As the silk would preserve decency and spare residents’ eyes the sight of decay, an axe would preserve honor. Made of iron, it had in Fëanor’s eyes been a functional but ugly thing. There was nothing wrong with it, yet it was not perfect. No weapon, no armor so far was, and this was especially true in the wake of any death. The sun had set. The body, laid wrapped in silk atop the pyre, was honored with an axe which would rest at the base of the palette. It had been placed there by Albatross, whose customs were unfamiliar to the Isles, but not unwelcome. The Lady Stewardess and Turge lingered by the clinic’s round, wooden archway. The Prince-Lord of the Isle, Belestram Sylvaeri arrived in short company of Vienele. “I cannot offer the words of the All-Father's faithful, nor the blessings of Aspectism or other rites. Foremost, I am a warrior and smith, and I thank you, Tanager, that you will not be without it into the next life, to wherever your soul will find itself. May you rest, may your soul go in peace. You fought bravely, and to the last. And thus, a warrior's funeral.” Fëanor Sylvaeri takes three steps forth. Though the remnants of his beginning words had carried through the canopies about the elven group, he continues. “A warrior's pyre, for Tanager. Have any others here parting words before we send him off?” “He checked the walls, it was an honourable labour.” “He was my cousin, so if shared anything with me then he was alright.” “My condolences for your loss,” Vienele says as much to Albatross. “Dispatched only bodily by a wicked wyvern,” Fëanor would muse. Come to kneel beside the pyre, the kindling tucked under his elbow was soon organized into a long, creeping pile against the palette’s wood. “A death braver than most.” “One that could easily have claimed me,” the elf’s father speaks. There was a long silence as the patient Fëanor took flint and tinder to the kindling. At first, the only sounds from him were the idle clicks of flint and tinder. Unafraid, barely moving, the flameworker casts sparks across the kindle. “We send you away, Tanager, that you will be committed to a well-deserved rest.” Smoke, then embers rise across the pile of kindle, flames sparking and consuming the dry twigs and leaves. In a moment, it climbs across and breaches in the innermost cross-sections of wooden logs. These tufts of smoke begin to billow and climb at the outermost reaches of the cliffs, breaching a spot between the hawthorn canopies and mounting skyward into the dusk. The kindle and logs had been arranged so that the heat would spread in a rectangular manner, up and towards the crimson-draped figure atop the pyre. Laid down, Tanager's broken form was soon to be consumed by the encroaching flames, which hastily make towards him from the elf's arrangements. It was certain now, no trace but ash would be left of Tanager Volaren. “May Ælfwynn guide his soul, for one who falls in battle is accepted nowhere beneath the side of the All-Father himself,” Albatross prays. Fëanor murmured hymns in the back of his dried throat. There was no exact word for the emotions coursing through him. Displeasure, anger: these were close, but not precise. Perhaps these were the lingering results of his trials with wyvern and lubba scales. Too many hours in the heat of the forge were sure to dry the body, make the mind weary. Prayer was one of his few reserved acts to settle his mind. The pyre burnt into the dawn. As the elf spoke parting, hopeful words with the soon dispersing crowd, he was faraway in thought. For although Tanager would be laid to rest now, there was a second, headless corpse to be disposed of. This next pyre would not be made for honoring Jim, and would be seen by no one but the most barren of trees.

Fëanor decided his luck was poor. Scales littered the workbench before him, their sizes varying: shimmering teal, miniscule; ink-black, large as a dinner plate. These spoils were the bounty of the serpent-kin which surfaced through his family’s history: the Droquar from Atlas’s early years, the lubba, now wyverns. He was poor in luck but rich in scales, and this made him cross. These scales were not worth the loss of good Tanager, whose life was snatched away by the jaws of the wyvern. Not worth the loss of his father’s arm. The bounty had been mighty, yet the scales could never outweigh the omen which draped over his shoulders and bore down on his back. It had been only a month since his mother spoke of mortality: that he would yet outlive her and others. Just less than a month he had spoken of this (in part) to his father, and now his father too had a brush with death. Too many other omen-words drifted into his forethought. The elf had enough. Serpent-coin, flames, mallet and anvil: all of these would drown the premonitions, these shadows of his mind out. The forge of Aegrothond was hotter for the following week, as the young smith sought perfection by the flames and by his own hands, weaving scale bounties into wondrous armor. “You are an inheritor of action,” someone had told him, long ago.

Thanks, Bio-Domes! Very cool.

Eight souls upon a vessel with crimson sails milled about the deck of the Red Dawn. The wood beneath their feet, a too-pale color for the work they sought to carry through, but bright enough that the blistering heat of the sunlight was less agonizing for those with bare feet. Out here, hours away from any shore, the craft was a bright and red spot in the open sea: a target. These elves were here not for fishing, but revenge, and hunting. It was but a year ago they had been assailed on a meager fishing trip. A small boat, made bent and broken by the mother-serpent they had offended. The crew, six then, had assaulted its child and drew its mother out. The beasts returned to sea as quickly as they had come, though not without damage to the small boat and to one crew member, Leyne. The crew returned to the Isles, and now they were at sea, with a vessel thrice as large and bearing small ballistae, and a larger crew. Hours away from land and their bait was warmed and soon ready to spoil. The captain of the vessel took note of this, and hailed the crewman who secured their bait: Annil. The proud hunter had secured a most vile bin of wolf’s innards, primarily the gut. Out at sea, this was a scent rank enough to cause the weakest of constitutions sickness over the side of the craft. "Annil, have you chummed waters before?" Fëanor Sylvaeri hails. By now, the elf was much a portrait of his ancestor Eleron, once a shipwright. It was a plain thing to see for elves who knew the fallen prince, but to the crew of the vessel, this was no new thing. Always, those elves of Sylvaeri blood took well to the sea. “Oh, uh, don't you just chuck it over?” Annil, the hunter of the wolf’s guts. An elf older than half the crew, but whose appearance suggested elsewise. “You just chuck a **** ton of meat and blood over the surface.” Elros of the Silma, here to accompany young elf Damien and in part oversee the success of the trialing elf Annil. One of the veteran crewman, too. “Aye, pick a side,” the Sylvaeri called again. The gore was prepared, and Annil took to the port-side railing of the vessel, just beside the center mast. Annil rose his voice, urging the crew to be prepared. The elves assumed the wait would be short, for they were likely to attract the ire of their prey. Be it the heat of the sun, the impatience of Annil or the weight of the wolf-guts, the elf delivered the chum out across the railing and into the sea, bloodying the waters. They would wait. At first a few minutes, but the heat soon boiled their tempers. One of the crewmen nearly sparked a fight, insisting the youngest of the elves, a lad of fifteen years take to smoke from his pipe. The crew and captain’s attention were set upon the argument, and this they would regret, for they had forgotten the speed of the creature. A great fin broke the surface of the water some fifty meters out. The elves were quick to notice, but less so to act. Before the crew and captain had fully prepared, the mother-serpent had struck the starboard-side of the Red Dawn, and revealed her unpleasant visage. She was met, not with tears and meager arrows, but harpoons carved with runes, carrying upon their speartips the wrath of the elements. Yet the serpent-mother’s wrath was great and terrible, for these elves had attacked her child and invited her to these waters with a bloody promise of food. She would have her fill, a way or another. A harpoon struck her flank, and sent the large beast wailing, thrashing between the rigging and railing. The vessel tipped with her great weight, tossing the elves who sought to take aim upon her. Bloodied sea water stained and filled the deck from starboard side. The sun, blinding as the glimmering scales reflected light upon the crew only served to contribute to the bolts and arrows which flung off course, deflecting off the thick scales of the beast. She would not avoid the clerical light of Delmira which exposed flesh on her neck, blasting scales free. Bloody desperation, attempts to gouge the young elf Damien and too Turge and Elros sent the thrashing serpent-mother to the deck of the Red Dawn, further towards the port-side of the boat. Any elf within her path was certain to be felled or torn apart by horns or teeth. For her thrashing, Elros had gouged the sea-mother’s left eye, thus hurrying her escape towards the sea, Elros certain to tumble over. Leyne, narrowly avoiding the hungry beast’s wrathful maw, was sent to the deck of the ship, certain to be dragged off after the beast, for her rope was still leading to it. Already her vigor for sea-serpent blood had dazed her. It would take the efforts of the cleric to free her from the rope, which soon was scooped up by the captain. In the chaos, Damien narrowly avoided the wrathful mother’s horns and for it received a long gash, though not without wounding the creature in her escape, where scales had been torn apart by Delmira. Damien was saved then by Turge, but as for Elros, he and Fëanor tumbled into the rigging of the boat. A great snap was heard, the mast and rigging soon beginning to tumble seawards. Gore and scales littered the deck in the beast’s death-throes. A bolt from Annil upon a port-side ballista struck true into the beast. The crew and Elros, safe upon the deck, reeled back as the boat flung back to starboard side. The serpent-mother tumbled over, gravely wounded, and after her followed the elf captain. Fëanor arced one arm above, a mace with four hooked flanges in one hand and delivered the mortal blow to the serpent-mother in their descent to the waters. He would not recount his fight with death to the crew just yet, but this he said later to a denizen of the Isle. "I tumbled o'er into the sea and plunged my mace into its flank. I felt and saw it bled and die, and I tumbled, over and over into the bloody froth and foam beside the boat. Dark, corrosive, bloody. Pain in my lungs from lack of air, in my side from the lightning that struck me... I live, yet. The taste does not come out yet. I can still smell the blood." Leyne took it upon herself to tear the captain free of the rigging as the crew panicked in their bloodied state. Annil, against his own fear of the sea, experienced bravery if only to save this elf. It was difficult to spot the elf beneath the corpse of the serpent-mother, and he had not counted upon Leyne’s assistance. Either way, the crew and captain were whole, and ever quickly tiring. Just as swiftly as it had come, the creature now would float dead beside the craft. It would take hours to be prepared for a return trip home, in large part to Kharris’s devotion to the steering, but ultimately they were victorious: the lubba mother was dead, and its child an orphan at sea.

To clarify, is this three days after the silence is no longer active?