dard

I'll give you my first born if you can help me make them. I tried earlier and it broke my post

Well, before I could respond you deleted your comment. But to address your points which I can no longer quote, namely "why I am doing this for all spooks?" I laid it out nicely: the language had very little, lore behind it other than "sp00ky people language" and that it had died out. I saw the tremendous amount of effort that Watyll and Mephistophelian put into this, and I wanted to see the effort that the two of them and those who helped collaborate on the Black Language not be in vain. If you have actual suggestions on how to improve this, I'm all ears. I've already changed several things when others approached me and brought up several criticisms in the past 30 minutes. Like it or not, there are a lot of spooks on the server. That isn't my fault and you shouldn't blame me for that. My intent here is to bring flavor to that roleplay, being something more than "undead human" or "undead elf" that speaks plain common like they have a tongue or something (most don't). How do they speak? What gives them the ability? It's a talking skeleton! How does that even work? What about the mistman wraithboy walking around in black sheets, how is he even talking? Those were the questions I initially wanted to answer.

The Resonant Dead [[I apologize to those of you who got offended when I tried to revitalize Watyll's lore. This is everything that was my idea now just made into some roleplay guidelines with explainations. Is it necessary or essential? No. Would I like it implemented? Yes, tired of undead being just the dead version of whatever race they were before. I'm not doing anymore full-on rewrites, this is the fourth and final total rewrite. I’ll accept feedback, additions and minor changes where need be.]] The Resonance of Undeath All undead possess full comprehension and fluency of their native tongue upon their rebirth, but it does not reproduce from the same sounds as that of mortal beings. This is because undead creatures speak differently than mortals, as they do not possess the same mechanics for speech. Lich-types, apparitions, eidolai, dread knights, daeva, wraiths, morghuul and other undead communicate through a resonant form of sound differing from that of mortal language. While the nature of where the sound comes from differs from creature to creature, it is explained by one logical answer: magic. Undead perform a sort of magical resonance. The scope of the sounds different undead are different than that of normal vocal-cords. For some undead creatures, it may be a form of telepathy where the voice is transmitted to the minds of those nearby. For others, it could be a form of clicking or whispers, the forces that bind them bending the air around them to create sounds not unlike woodwind instruments. Regardless of the nature of their new voice, one will never make a flute sound like a trumpet even if they are a master trumpeter. Therefore, in undeath, a creature would sound much more differently than they were perceived in life. Creatures of undeath can find their grasp of language skewed. Those with the worse cases can feel as if they are learning to speak again, and may only possess the ability to utter fragments of their past vernacular with their resonance. As the undead are those who have a less than traditional diet, they may find themselves speaking more primal and rudimentary phrases when they hunger for the life essence that sustains them. Undead who have taken the draught of incite, or who are husked, may once more speak their native tongue with ease. Those who are draughted may not perform their resonance. Undead who are husked possess the advantage of being able to express resonance and the actual vocals of their husked body, making things extra spooky. Normal beings who hear resonance often describe it as an incoherent clicking, hissing, or whispering. While they can understand the words, the nature of resonance can sometimes cause frisson and chills for those with unaltered souls. Usage This allows players to have more flavor when emoting with their undead characters. While it does not give special powers such as full on telepathy, it offers some insight on how a creature without vocal-cords can talk. It is purely up to each player how, or if, they wish to do this. Tips and Examples Though it is not required, italicizing, bolding, punctuation, and capitalization of words can also help add emphasis to the strain an undead creature might have in their resonance. These are merely examples, if you are playing a wraith and want to have some form of general telepathy when you speak that is your prerogative, provided it does not go outside the red lines. Morghuul often speak in loud hissing and clicking, or just outright dredging raw, primal sounds from their damaged body to create speech. [!]The decaying creature croaked, its teeth chattering as it rasped some dreadful sound from the pit of its throat, “I des..pise clerics..” Wraiths may twist the air in front of them to produce a heinous, shriek-like noise to communicate. Angzmarku’s visage produced a disgruntling noise; air contorted, cascading off of the eldritch faceplate as it produced a perverted, wailing voice: “The. Abyss. Is. Mine.” Ghostlike beings sometimes communicate by producing a telepathic-sort of whisper around them. [!]A whisper filled the minds of those nearby, the words as coherent as sound. Each word lingered for a moment as it faded from thought, “Where is my amulet, mortal?” To the man appeared before, the she-ghost was there mouthing along with each word. Lich-type beings can have a special resonance where their inner-voice is emanated from the skull in general telepathy. Gravelord Adremeich’s eye sockets glowed green in hue, seeming to burn ever brighter. Words filled the minds of those nearby in the vernacular of a mortal man, “I will speak with the coven in regards to your trials.” Dread knights and pale knights sometimes have an unrefined resonance, akin to that of morghuuls and wraiths, where their words are produced by magically-enhanced raw sound. [!]Grinding metallic sounds reverberate from the armor’s faceplate, creating primal, loud sounds. “RHADE. DOES. NOT. CARE.” The hulking armor proceeded to slam the ferrum blade into the Cleric’s skull. Wights can mimic the resonance of most other creatures. Marlon had a depraved grin on his face. As he went to speak, a different voice came out; not from his mouth. From his mind to that of his associate came the words that trailed with each motion of his jaw. “You dumb ****.” Red Lines Undead creatures that can transmit a telepathic voice are greater creatures of undeath (i.e. liches, wraiths, darkstalkers). Ghosts who grown accustomed to their form may also do so. Morghuuls will never be able to do this. Undead creatures who use a telepathic resonance do not get to control the targets of their resonance. It will be just like a normal voice, instead of through sound-waves, it goes to the minds of those nearby. There must also be some form of tell, (i.e. mandible mouthing as it speaks, glowing eyes that punctuate with each word, ect.) but this is mostly up to the player. Resonance is not a separate language. People can understand it, provided they understand the language that is being resonated. The general telepathy cannot be used to cause bodily or mental harm. At the most it can cause a little shivering to those of weaker constitution.

Though he had assumed his duties as Second Judge which prevented his past from surfacing in his duties, the man once known as Nasir, and Dardonas before him, hung his head in solemnly at his crow's return. Dardonas, Nasir, Sataric, the Second Judge—with all the names he had gone through throughout the years—he shared a bond with Analiana, being one of the few that knew the fate of Dardonas Drakon. He simply remained silent in contemplation of the truth behind her demise. The Second Judge did not need to hear the news. He knew it—her absence, the crow's fruitless journey as it returned with the note he sent to the woman—she was dead. Feelings of shame washed over the armored mali'fenn; his heart skipped a beat. The apology the woman deserved for his betrayal on behalf of the Gravelords' hunger for power would never fall upon her ears. The very Gravelords who had forsaken him to his demise as he withered into nothingness. The resonant knight lifted his head within the privacy of his sanctuary, donning his bronzed full-plate helmet. With the death of Analiana, the final piece of Nasir, thus Dardonas Drakon, died out from Sataric. As another mortal tie carved out violently and cast out from his being, the Second Judge turned, resolved. He spoke no words and expressed no disdain, but remained in his thoughts. Moments turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. There he brooded over his burning, damned city, for what seemed to be an eternity. He stayed his tongue, as if he were unworthy of offering any condolences, any words. In this moment, however, his honor did not exist. Sataric would speak the words the woman should have heard before she should have cast him to his fate, but not on the behalf of a Judge of Xion, necromancer of the coven, or a member of the Drakon family of the mali'fenn, but as a friend. "I did betray you. It was not to save you, or for relieving you of your curse. I lied; I was a coward. I did it for me. I did it for the favor of those who cast me aside after they had what they desired." Sataric shook his head, turning to face the ruined wall as he placed his gauntlet on its stone face. "'Sorry,'" he quoted the word, musing on it, "that was the one word you wished to hear, yet even in the face of my demise I refused to utter it for foolish pride and depraved cowardice." Sataric turned to face the fountain of ash and fire in the ruins of Mordhelm, "Well, I am sorry, Analiana."

"We are by the fire forsaken," the Second Judge recites in turn in his hollow, armored voice.

The First Seed and night’s eve of the Grand Harvest, 1636 After the first public trial of Devirad, First Judge Alduous’s words rang in the broke down streets of Mordhelm. Well after the words were spoken, their pressure could be heard weighing down the silence of a decaying city. "What say you in response to this determination?" — — Second Judge Sataric of Devirad walked through the unmanned gates. They had begun to callous in rust for years of unused. The iron groaned beneath the pressure of the rainy winds. Water cascaded from rooftops onto the streets; it pooled from the moss-covered fountain from its absence of maintenance. Vines draped down the mighty walls as for some ironic homage to its architects. They expected the city to last forever—everyone did. As the rains washed away the newest traces of dredge that built upon it. The city had come to life, aware of its sins as it tried to cleanse itself. The gusts of winds howling through the damp alleys and across the cracked pavement was its voice. It was in pain, agony; there the city stood weeping as its pitiful state was but a shadow of the promise it once held. What had become of Devirad? The promised land, the Bastion of the Godless: it is naught but rubble. The Second Judge stood in solemn contemplation as he stared at the empty crossroads. His eyes peered to the King’s Manor, where he soon made his way to. Moss had creeped up upon the door, sealing it shut. Letters, some recent, lie dampened, crumpled, as the rains dissolved the message they once held: words meant for the king that now drained into the sewers. Sataric placed his gauntlet to the door, then leaned forward as he placed his ear to the wooden entryway. The silence spoke louder than the rains. Compared to the howling wind, its song was deafening. A cacophonous discord of an absent King, mentor—a friend—rang true in his ears. It was as if, for a moment, the Second Judge had hoped to be wrong of the truth the city would have to face. His soaked bronzed armor rattled through the melodic rainfall as he approached the theatre. Sataric turns once more in quiet contemplation. He faced the entrance, the gate. There he stood above the fountain, in the quiet streets of a rotting city. The armored figure’s fist rattled as he clenched his fist. It shook. He shook. Devirad shook. The city that once was his true north now lies as a cesspit for violence, backstabbing, and debauchery. Where his grief took shaped, anger formed. Where hope once lay, scorn filled. The figure pivoted on the slick surface. He did not want to face the city or what had become of it. His visage aimed itself to the entrance of the theatre. A poster remained nailed into the brick. Most of its text had faded, but the man already knew what it said. A calling beckoning. A memory of a now dead man. Where the sadness formed, hope broke through. Where the anger formed, inspiration struck. Where the hatred formed, resolve pierced its veil. Once more, the man turned. His fist no longer trembled. His body no longer buckled. The city no longer wept. From his visage, a hollow, reverberating sound pierced the silence. He knew not if any still resided here—this city of the Damned—though he spoke anyways, if not to anyone but himself. “Devirad, I speak not to you now as a Judge of Xion, but as a man who called this once his home,” he prefaced. “These walls were meant to stand stall to the maleficar that threatened us. This gate to protect our people. These homes to shelter our kinsman. This theatre to teach our Doctrine. The clinic to heal our wounded. And the streets to stand with our fellow Man.” Sataric raised his plated fist into the air as well as his voice, if not to do anything else but challenge the nature of the rain falling itself. “The King is dead!” The man thundered, looking around for any who dare challenged his proclamation, “This city is dead!” “But I dispel the notion that our hopes are dead. I dispel this notion that the Way is dead. As I speak, clerical tyrants, Ascended scum, treacherous filth, and Canonist dogs conspire to eradicate our Way. The Way of the Old Lords before us.” The armored man retrieved a thick bound tome from being tucked away in his chest piece. He thrust it high: its dark leather cover emblazoned with a four-part heraldry on its face dripped with water from the rain it now was held to. “We shall not fear the damnation of aengulic minions. We do not fear the droning of actionless Canonist heathens. We shall not fear the unseen knives from those we once spilled blood for.” Sataric exclaimed loudly as he quoted the adage of the Old Lords,“We fear the Old Dark.” The Second Judge took a knee, looking to the stone pavement. He lowers the Good Book as he placed it back into its home beneath his armor. Sataric rested his gauntlet on the rain-glistened floor, and drug his metal fingers through the thin layer of silt. His voice restrained itself; the words taking on a grim, foreboding tone. “It has been decided Devirad shall be judged,” he spoke to the ground softly, yet firmly, like a father to his son. “I wonder, what say you in the determination of morrow’s wake?”

A man clad in bronzed carbarum stands tall, looking to the sky. It was as if he challenged something, someone, to strike him down as he stood before it. A dare, as if his words were not the truth. Alas, as he spoke nothing came. “It is not the tyranny of false deities that so perverts the freedom of a unified Man,” the Second Judge of Xion, Sataric of Devirad, shakes his head in disdain, “It is of their own undoing—damned be as the False Matron is for what she’s done—for Man falls into the temptation of power and sin of their own volition.” The armored man turns, idly pausing as he collected himself. “The oppressors that so threaten to flay women and children in the streets are not only the maleficar who have sold their soul for tangible power, but the ones who sell it for mortal covenants and wealth.” “Those who challenge the doctrine of the Old Lords, whether it be the spawn of false Gods, the dogs of the Canonist tyrants" The figure quietened, "or something in between—" He began to walk off. As the sun set, the last glimmering of its reach refracted off the bronzed plating. "Shall all be by the fire forsaken.”

[Bulletins would be plastered around the city of Mordhelm; this one is attached the the bulletin board] We have done it, brothers and sisters. Mordhelm stands proud and her people with it. Xionism reigns free within its walls—but now is not the time for hoarding our beliefs safely behind these walls. There is tragedy among us, Decendants of Man. Many perish never truly knowing the Way. Damnation awaits them, for they did not choose to be enslaved at birth to the false patrons. To all interested in sharing the ways, there is a Calling. Heed this as a warning, the road ahead could be treacherous. The Way may be full of peril, and there will most certainly be resistance. We press on in the face of danger. We press on in the wake of prejudice. We press on in the torment of hatred. For this is the burden we bear to save others the lies and Damnation that awaits them. The time is nigh to answer the Call, for the bell tolls and Xionism beckons. [At the bottom of the parchment there is a finer, more detailed statement] As declared by King Malineer, the Xionist Nasir has been instructed to recruit those interested in becoming the Hand of Xion to spread the Ways. The only requirement for this task is a basic understanding of Xionism and devotion to its ways. Violence will not be tolerated on missions, unless in cases of self defense, and escorts will be supplied for peacekeeping and the protection of the missionary on sanctioned mission trips. Any interested in becoming a missionary should speak to Nasir ((IGN: Dardonas)) in Mordhelm.

Nasir signs the document. "Seems promising."

The snow elf picked up a copy of the bounty that had been posted near his home. After reading the paper, Dardonas sighed, folding it and putting it into his coat. "Joy," he muttered to himself as he rolled his eyes.

Out-Of-Character Information What’s your Minecraft account name?: Dardonas What timezone are you in?: North American Central Time (CT) How old are you?: 21 Are you aware the content and interactions on this server may not be appropriate for children under the age of 13?: Yes Have you read and agreed to the rules?: Yes What’s the rule you agree with the most?: The mutual PVP rule where both parties have to be ready. Are there any rule(s) that confuse you or don’t make sense?: The rules about looting, lockpicking, and destruction confused me a bit, but just in terms of how items are stored and how buildings are destroyed. How did you find out about Lord of the Craft?: I was googling for an RPG, towny-like server that has great builds, as well as the potential for myself building, but one that isn't purely creative or PvE. I wasn't looking for an RP server to start out, but I'm looking for something different. Link(s) to past Whitelist Applications: N/A Definitions What is Roleplaying?: Roleplaying is playing your character from their perspective rather than the perspective of the audience. What is Metagaming?: Metagaming is using outside knowledge to aide your player character or another player character. What is Power-emoting: Power-emoting is one-sided roleplaying where the player character does an action to another character that the recipient cannot react to. In-Character Information Character’s name: Grimsly Copperpot Character’s sex: Male Character’s race: Halfling Character’s age : 25 Biography: Born on the colder than average Autumn of 1595, one Grimsly Copperpot came to being. It’s not a pleasant tale, but it is one, nonetheless. Grimsly was an orphan. Nothing is known about his parents, and he never cared to know anything of their lives. He was raised like a slave to a bitter old hag of a halfling named Agnus, who lived as a hermit near the woods of Willow Hollow. Grimsly never asked what her full name was out of fear of punishment, and never cared to learn it after he left as his way of getting back at her. Ever since he could stand, Agnus had Grimsly do all the menial tasks around the burrow: cooking, farming, going to the market, picking various herbs for her little apothecary. Nothing he ever did was good enough or right for her; if Agnus wanted a beetroot and Grimsly got one it was too big. If Agnus wanted some stew it was always too salty. If Grimsly came home from the market it was always “too late.” Punishments were severe and often. Agnus would make Grimsly go outside and, as she would say, “pick a switch.” That makeshift instrument was used to brand his back with her sickened mind until his flesh resembled mince and the smell of blood filled the air and her screams. “I never should have picked you up from the swamp,” she shrieked, “I’d be better off if you were dead.” The time he spent with Agnus wasn’t all useless though, and even Grimsly would admit to such. Agnus’s profession as an apothecary often required Grimsly as an assistant. She never outright taught him, but Grimsly didn’t need her teachings. He was a quick study, and often found himself brewing potions while Agnus slept. That was not the only thing Agnus failed to teach Grimsly, however. Grimsly never experienced what empathy was growing up. He might not have known it existed, be it not for his trips to the marketplace in Willow Hollow. As he blossomed into adolescence, he decided he could live on his own. It wasn’t until shortly after that he got word of Agnus’s death at the hand of orcish raiders. Joy was something unbeknownst to Grimsly before he heard the news. One would think his caretaker would at least elicit a tear, but even months after he left his scars still felt fresh. It wasn’t until he was on his own that Grimsly gave himself his own surname of Copperpot. Growing up in the stalls of the marketplace, the only refuge Grimsly could find, he heard breathtaking tales of Sutica, and a halfling territory of Reedsborough that existed there. He heard tales of power and politics, of the island booming with coin and prosperity and an intermingling of all races and culture, but more importantly to him, the power that wealth had over the realm. Grimsly often fantasized about living there, and how the people of Vailor founded such a place to take refuge at when they came to the Isles of Axios in 1573. Such thoughts kept his mind off a harsh reality: he was alone and had nothing to his name. At the ripe age of 20, Grimsly spent his first Winter alone. His newfound freedom was bittersweet. Though the halfings of Willow Hollow are welcoming and hearty, Grimsly’s past made him wary of any strangers and he ended up spending that winter alone in the woods. Things changed when he went to his first DunFest. While she was alive, Agnus forbade Grimsly to attend any such festivals. He learned much of his people and his culture at DunFest, finally letting his guard down enough just to enjoy himself. It was there where he began to admire the windmills and what they could, inquiring about with some of the local architects and beginning a fascination for any similar sorts of mechanizations. It wasn’t any one thing that led Grimsly to end up departing Willow Hollow. It could have been him trying to escape the ghost of Agnus haunting his mind. The desire to see the island of Sutica and his kinsmen at Reedsborough. To feel empowered through riches and wisdom. Maybe it was a combination of all these things. Or maybe it was to figure out which of those things he wanted most, or something in between. The reason didn’t matter to him though, there was only one answer for any of that—Grimsly Copperpot needed to leave, and to see the Isles of Axios. Personality Traits: Grimsly is a brilliant apothecary and inventor, though he can be prone to fits of sloth and apathy. He’s become obsessed with coin due to the influence and power it has over people, peasants and kings alike. He knows when to cut his losses, and when something is a gamble rather than an investment. This is a halfling that’s in it for himself, though that’s all he’s ever known. It would take a miracle short of the Pumpkin Lord knocking on his door for a halfling like Grimsly to see the err in his ways. Ambitions: Grimsly follows the path of most money and power, which he thinks his way. He’s never truly thought on his end goal, legacy—his path. Grimsly knows the truth deep down, and it’s made him callous and bitter; he distracts himself with the mundane like wealth and ambition so he doesn’t have to live with the fact that a life like that will lead him to die alone. His comfort in money and politics comes from the lack of power he had in his childhood, and the smallest taste of is what fuels his addiction for more today. Strengths/Talents: If there is someone out there can brew up a potion or pint (provided there is coin involved), it’s Grimsly. What he lacks in physical prowess he makes up for in his tactics and inventions. Using his knowledge of the apothecarian artes, Grimsly possesses the ability to make devastating toxins to slow and harm his enemies. Combining that with his talent for tinkering, Grimsly can easily go toe to toe (metaphorically speaking) with even the largest of orcs. It could go without saying, but since Grimsly is one to brag, his grasp of herblore is unmatched. For any concoction out there you know of (and event he ones you don’t), he knows about it and has probably already made it twice and much more efficiently. Weaknesses/Inabilities: Grimsly is a prideful creature. His arrogance has been known to get the best of him. He finds manual labor beneath him, not being very fond of working mines or farming, but rather making mechanizations to do it for him. Appearance: Though Grimsly tries to make himself stand out from other halfings, he falls quite short. Not literally, he’s actually an average height as a halfling at 3 feet tall. His hair is reddish brown, usually quite unkempt and shaggy. Grimsly has taken to try and distinguish his facial features by growing out a short beard, though all he can manage are long sideburns and a slight neckbeard. Grimsly’s back is covered in the scars of old welts from Agnus and her switch. His hands have grown soft from lack of blue collar labor, and his eyes shine a rich shade of jade. The red jacket he wears is something he prides himself on, having won it from a bet from some merchant who boasted he got it from some high elf royalty—it was probably just some tall tale, but its significance to Grimsly was greater than that: it was the first thing he earned using his talents once he was out on his own. Skin: