Urge

Reminder: All of this is a rough draft purely for the sake of demonstration. If there is interest in making adjustments then further feedback will be taken into account. Hey everyone, A few updates ago Mojang increased the character limit for nameplates. What this means for LotC, is that it's now possible to display a wealth of information including statuses, roleplay names, health, and more all at once. An example of how the server currently functions can be seen here: An example of a new way to format names can be seen here: There's a poll attached to this thread; please be sure to vote in it and/or leave a comment with additional feedback. Secondly, the forums used to have badges in the form of circles (●●●) related to reputation or post count. It seems that feature has been lost over time. This is what they used to look like: We have three options: we can leave them removed, readd them in the form of text symbols, and lastly add custom images. In the spoiler below I'll leave a few references and those three options will be listed in the poll. I appreciate everyone who takes the time to vote on these polls -- each one matters.

Hey everyone, As a few of you may be aware, Minecraft now supports 6-digit hexadecimal colors to specify custom colors other than the 16 default color codes. This introduces millions of new options for colors in text components. In simpler terms, this means things like custom emote colors are now possible. The first critique that comes to mind when suggesting a change like this would be something along the lines of: find colors that fit within the existing LotC ecosystem (no obnoxious gradients, or neon/contrasting colors). I understand there's a certain nostalgia attached to some of the current color codes too. It's my personal belief the community can probably come up with a better set of color schemes/conventions than I could on my own, should we decide to implement some. Nothing is set in stone, this post is purely meant to solicit feedback and hopefully start a conversation. I'll leave a poll up to gauge opinions. What's more helpful, however, are comments. I've run this idea by @Llirand @The60th. After a brief discussion and a cursory look at the existing codebase, this feature should be able to be incorporated on the server. The question is: how? The changes don't need to be dramatic, it could be as simple as adjusting the tablist's header and footer. A rough example of this can be seen below: Another idea is revamping some of the VIP colors. For instance, Ender/Bedrock share a color -- the differentiating factor between them is simply just one being bold. Here is an example of what it looks like now, as well as an idea for a way to make them differ. Should boldened characters only be reserved for staff teams? The last idea is adding custom emote colors as an ostensible VIP perk. We could preapprove a list of hundreds of colors, as well as have a system for approving unique ones similar to the custom tag system for Aether VIPs.

Hey LotC, I’m writing this post to solicit feedback on graphics for LotC. I’m the guy who made the previous, current, and ostensible future sets and I want to make sure they are in line with what the community wants (this poll indicates that they aren't). The idea to revise some of the graphics as seen below started when the assets got lost in a forum theme update; this includes the old VIP icons. Here are the two old sets of staff badges/icons: Presently, the donor icons for the LotC forums are broken. Here is what's broken, and this is an old screenshot of what it used to look like prior: After seeing the results of the poll I went ahead and made another draft of the icons. I used whatever feedback provided with substance that I could gather. Here is the result of that: My closing thoughts are: some of the LotC assets have lost their source files over the years some icons just look dated. The old adage also comes to mind, if something isn't broken, you don't need to fix it. I don't think any icons are set in stone, or are going to be forced on anyone. Originally they were rolled out just as a test to see if they were still possible with the present forum theme. I'll include a poll to gather feedback, but what might be more helpful are references or ideas by way of replies/comments. These icons are very changeable, and I'm very interested in making sure the community enjoys the assets they're using on a day-to-day basis. Thanks for your time. Here is a post using the "new" graphics. Bonus Divider Concepts: Also, a quick shoutout to @Amayonnaise for the dragon-themed Discord and main-server icons; she is incredibly talented.

[!] A series of missives would be posted around the Commonwealth of the Petra, the majority of which would be seen in its capital, Vallagne. ☩ ΉΣЯΣ ᄂIΣƧ ƬΉΣ ЦПƧΣΣП ✦ Hwæt! Þonne com oferne plegan, þær scēapa and gāt seofonfald hātan. Listen! When the game is over, the sevenfold shall be named, the sheep and G҉O҉A҉T҉. ✦ Hwilum blæd and wæstm þæs ofersēola fylð, ac him bið lytel freoðe āfre geteohod. ۞ ۞ Sometimes the abundance and growth of the high pasture shall fail, but little peace shall ever be bestowed upon them. ✦ Gesāwon wēardas, blēatsprǣce sēon, hwylce bēacna sēcþ, þonne scēapan fuglað. The shepherds have seen, they seek signs of bleatspeak, when the sheep are flying. ƬӨ ƬΉӨƧΣ ЩΉӨ ᄂΛᄃK IƬƧ FΛVӨЯ ☬

CAUGHT IN THE REVERIE It was a still, warm afternoon as Strickland Banks departed from his small keep, a place he had yet to name. It was a humble place, little more than a two-building wooden abode sitting atop a rock. A well-built, sturdy bridge leapt over the river it bordered to connect the two sides, and from there Banks and his servants often took the time to fish. It was the most useful part of the keep, that bridge, as it allowed him to let the days pass along quicker. Occasionally matters were made livelier with the infrequent arrival of local tax collectors, and it was here that some of his more rambunctious friends would take the opportunity to play a few jokes on the poor man. Yet, days such as those had come to grow fewer and farther between. On the evening that Banks had received the land deed, he and his closest companions had spent the night at a local tavern. They were sketching designs for a grand estate, discussing the defensive necessities that such a keep would require, and arguing over the name it would carry: a signifier that this stretch of land was truly their own. That day was years ago. Some of his friends were still present, shuffling within and around the keep, and occasionally taking a few days to hunt, but most had since left. Two had died, Cutler and Hob, but the rest had ventured elsewhere, off to greener pastures. Whistling a merry tune, Banks continued along the lonely dirt road that led to Petra, where he could hopefully find an open tavern. Although the walk was long and lacked company, he didn’t mind it much. As the more rugged landscape near his keep gave way to the gentle rolling hills of the town, an increasing number of farmsteads and ranches came into sight. As he passed them all, Banks could see the fieldhands laughing amongst each other as they picked their grapes, children playing in between tall stalks of corn, and aging farmers instructing their sons on how to repair a broken gap in the fence. All was well for those unable to read their histories, he thought. It was well past midday as Banks finally reached the outskirts of Petra, a town similarly enjoying the fruits of the day. Making his way through a few streets, the gentryman eventually settled on a polished, recently-built tavern. A few denizens could be seen walking about the streets, but otherwise what life that may have existed seemed to be shuttered away for the day. It was the same last week. Entering the tavern, Banks was greeted by a bright, colorful, and well-decorated establishment. Something was cooking in the kitchens, and although he did not know what it was, it smelled good. Aside from the barkeep and a few hired hands, the only other person in the establishment was an old, lanky dark elf sitting in a damp corner. He could be seen drinking from a mug encrusted with cheap gems. Figuring he too would want a companion, Banks decided to sit across from him, with or without their permission. The elf simply greeted him with a nod and continued drinking. “Quiet day, isn’t it?” Banks asked the elf. “It’s been a quiet day for a long time now. Every town I enter, every pub I frequent, experiences a quiet day.” The dark elf responded, bitterly grimacing as he finished the rest of his drink. He gestured for another from the barkeep. “I suppose so, though the war against King Frederick made the notion of fighting quite sour in many.” The gentryman ordered a pint of mead. “Did you fight? I did. A shame to call that a war. I’ve seen bar fights greater than that.” Spat the elf “No, it ended before I could even arrive. It was a quick-run thing.” “A time before me, it seems. The rise and fall of great men, empires, kingdoms, the like. They began and ended not with meek whimpers, but with thunderous claps! We have lost it, I think.” Said the excitable young gentryman, sighing after. “Now, though, I sit at my keep and I fish.” “Hm… The cause is… fine, but I speak not of that. I have fought for and against many men, both good and wicked, and by my hand, or by the hand of the men I knew, history has been altered. However, I find that is not what stirs my soul.” The elf rapped his thin, wrinkled fingers on the rim of his mug. “Then what is?” The old elf paused for a moment, gathering his words, before taking a small sip and beginning again. “At each battle I fought, I stood beside the only family I have known. They, like I, were contemptible rouges, holding little else sacred but their own battle-brother, but it was in them that I found life" “I had a band of friends like that, too,” said Banks. “We didn’t fight any battles, well, we haven’t yet, but I think we will before our lives are over. Most of them are off and away now.” “Don’t count on it,” said the elf, finishing what seemed to be his hundredth flagon. “I thought the same just a few years ago. I keep humoring myself into thinking something could be a return to the days I sorely miss. To each and every comrade that I stood beside at Helena and a thousand other battles, I sent a letter.” He looked at Banks, his piercing eyes quite somber. “Dead. Retired. Missing. The whole lot of them.” “Could you not make new companions?” Asked Banks. “Perhaps.” The dark elf shrugged. “But it doesn’t feel the same. Victory is not so sweet when the men you cheer with are strangers, nor can defeat be consoled so swiftly when you drink alone. The men I knew were men who joined me as we triumphed over armies vastly larger than our own, and men who would stand by me even after a shattering defeat. Such a bond cannot be so easily forged.” Strickland Banks raised a brow, incredulous. “Outnumbered? A tale I hear from every old soldier. Surely you’re playing up the tale a bit more than you’d like to admit.” The elf smirked, raising his tankard to his lips. “Well, not always.” With that, the ashen-skin elf drifted into a drunken stooper; dreaming of vast pastures filled with sun-ripened strawberries.

THE MAKINGS OF SOMETHING SINISTER 1st of Snow's Maiden, Year 94 S.A. Amidst the streets of the pale-bricked city of Celia’nor, warbled, parched cries of its nighthawks pierced the frigid air. It was a peaceful place, where the mages and guardsmen often kept order. Like the complex castle structures and strong buttresses that fortified the city, there was a luminescent glow to the running cold waters of the channel that ran through the city. Two young men had their first encounter in the dead of night adjacent to some such flowing waters. The demeanor of one of the men was as icy as the cold, wintertide winds that bellowed around them. His purple skin was incandescent and glowed with pallor of the surrounding buildings; the mirrored specter of light that ebbed and flowed like a tide of the moon. “I have received your letter,” the elf began with brevity. His voice was raspy and garbed from behind the confines of a mask that obscured his facial features. The metal mask was wrought from a substance not unlike daemonsteel, and its ornate design refracted the light from nearby municipal city lamp posts. Carved into the crest of the mask just below the temple rested two hollow slits containing hidden, blue-tinged eyes that were partially obscured. “It revealed much. You mentioned that your grandfather was some type of sorcerer. Yet, that leaves it unclear to me why you would approach somebody like myself. We do not conjure baubles. We do not heat pans, create lights, or forge antiques.” The newcomer at first seemed at a loss for words once confronted. The dark elf bore whitish eyes not unlike the Matron Velulaei, the mistress of the crescent moon; a forebear of the Mali’ker spoken of hollowly in fraught legend and song. Unlike his compatriot, the dark elf had hidden nothing of himself, bearing only close-cropped raven black hair and a simple traveler’s garb that served to make him appear indistinct in the largest Elven city to grace the continent since the Dominion of yore. “I seek not to be a conjurer of useless baubles,” he spat vulgarly, contemplating the image of balding house mages and bard sorcerers of the contemporary world. To him, they were nothing but frauds. In the old days, to be a sorcerer meant striking a Faustian bargain for eldritch powers, not accessing a book in a public library to cook your chicken and do simple tasks that any man or woman simply ought to do with their own two hands. “True study,” the dark elf went on. “It is accompanied by risks. Risks in return for immense gain. A pay-off, a trade-off of immeasurable value.” He simply nodded his head in affirmation upon hearing the dark elf answer his query. His horns were slicked back tersely atop the roof of his earlobes. “I see then,” his eyes peered into the dark elf’s soul from beyond his mask, distant and demonic. Within his irises flared a putrid aura, a lingering feeling of unrest that seemed as though it had been plucked from the fiery confines of the underworld itself. With that and to limited ends, the two men had then established the basis of their pact.

Courtesy: @Jaelon THE ORDER OF EXALTED GODFREY THE REDEEMER 5th of Godfrey's Triumph, 1887 Genesis The Order of Ex. Godfrey the Redeemer was founded by Lucian of Aeldin, a hedge knight who traveled to the shores of Almaris in the Holy Orenian Empire. Driven by the goal of establishing a foothold of his own and surrounding himself with like-minded individuals, Lucian traveled the countryside. He sought companionship amongst all walks of society, so long as they shared his moral values. Pious knights, merchants, and assorted peasantry without homes flocked to his cause; all were welcome within the halls of Mersten. The Apotheosis of Godfrey It is the doctrines of the Exalted Godfrey that served as the muse to generations of Humanity’s foremost scholars, warriors, and politicians. Upon reaping the rewards of his generous conquest of the known world, Godfrey’s Holy Orenian Empire would become the first in a long line of dominant human superpowers to impose its authority over the planet. Roads were constructed, feudal systems codified, and great walls were established throughout the nation. The strongest militaries in the world, such as the White Rose, House Flay, and the Teutonic Order, paid homage to the magnanimous conqueror whose ambition was as boundless as his piety and honesty. Ideals and Goals Whilst no man is perfect, Lucian found much to admire and mimic in the paths of those that came before him. A shared doctrine of discipline and honor laid the foundations for his brotherhood. It was not enough to simply claim allegiance to these ideals, but to exemplify them in all respects in your daily life. The Order exists to provide a home to those willing to set aside the pettiness of their normal lives and seek to embody these virtues. Many who approach the group find themselves unable to meet the stringent requirements. The Order is not explicitly dedicated to only martial respects. It is expected for all knights to become well-rounded individuals in all respects. Lessons on literacy and various crafts are not uncommon within the walls, and members are encouraged to live a multi-faceted and rich life. Tenets Skilled in diplomacy and combat, a knight of the Order serves as an official representative of Mersten in other lands. Though he uses force when necessary to achieve his goals, he prefers compromise to hostility. He seeks friendly alliances with good-aligned governments, common ground with neutral societies, and a quick and efficient end to evil. A knight should be the voice of reason, hesitant to engage in drawn-out, bloody encounters before exploring less extreme options. A knight should always aid a fellow brother with just cause. A knight should not loft his rank above his fellow man. All men are equal before GOD. A knight reinforces the ideals of the order by acknowledging the good deeds of ordinary citizens and expressing his appreciation in private meetings or public ceremonies. A knight should be learned in matters both scholarly and martial. Iconography Knights of the Order typically find themselves draped in the Mersten colors of purple and white. Being composed of various backgrounds, the garb is usually standardized in make and supplied to recruits of the Order. This uniform serves as a reminder that although one may hold rank and title outside of Mersten’s walls, there is a hierarchy to be observed within. One that is based on merit and ability rather than purely birth. Ranking and Recruitment Grandmaster Seneschal Knight Commander Knight Captain Knight Squire Page Those seeking recruitment into the Order are first interviewed to ascertain their intentions and if they possess the strength of character requested by the order. Should they not prove lacking, they are taken on as a Page. They will spend this time working on proving to the Order their conviction and aspiring to ascend to the rank of Squire. Once a Squire, one serves at the side of a Knight of the Order. They accompany them through battle and also assist in their daily affairs. Eventually, once a Knight has deemed his Squire worthy, he grants him a quest to complete. Each quest is unique to the Knight and varies greatly. Once said quest has been completed and the proof has been provided, the Squire is presented to the Grandmaster to rise as a Knight of the Order.

Courtesy: @Nectorist HIS MOTHER'S KEEPER 22nd of Owyn's Flame, 1887 “Are you deaf, man? Your name!” The words of the ruddy-faced guardsman rung clearly in Thomas’ ears. His heart, which for a moment had stopped its heavy thudding, resumed again. As the blood began to travel through his veins once again, the man could think clearly. Best to give them a false name for now. The governor may be more inclined to hear me out, but I can’t bet my life on street watchers. Thomas looked away from the guard, and to the governor’s palace behind him. Brick, brick, and more brick. A man could spend a lifetime counting each and every one, laid perfectly atop one another. A short wall, starting from the palace wrapping around the estate; encompassing the post office, the granary, and the servant’s quarters, akin to how a mother embraced her children. It was the largest building for miles around, by far. Still, it was the home of a provincial governor, assigned to oversee farming and ensure grain shipments were sent on time. It could not hold a candle to the lavish courts of Montclair or Vesetta, never mind Langford or Pronce. Regardless, it was Thomas Augustus’ last chance at finding a home. It would have to do. “Well? I haven’t got all da-” “Edwin. My name is Edwin. I come from Fenbel. I bear news for Governor Richton, from Lord Amiel.” Thomas reached inside his overcoat, pulling from it a few crumpled papers. “The drought has rendered five of our mills unusable. I’ve come to see if Obel can spare any flour.” The guardsman looked over the papers for a moment before handing them back to Thomas. “Not that I can read them. Go on in.” He lifted his halberd and stepped aside, allowing the man entry. The interior of the palace was as similarly unspectacular as the exterior, though it was clear that Governor Richton had spent a small fortune on decorations. Rugs from Oyashima lined the floors. A mixture of boar, deer, lion, and other animal’s heads lined the walls. A chandelier, clearly made from the craftsmen of Arkent, hung from the ceiling. A handful of slaves, servants, and attendants scuttled throughout the house, but aside from that it was mostly quiet. Ascending a polished wooden staircase, Thomas made his way to the second story of the palace, where he was told the governor’s office would be. The second floor of the palace was little more than a narrow hallway lined with plain wooden doors, save for the very end, where a large double-door, laced with silver and painted black, was waiting. Presuming that this was the governor’s office, Thomas made his way down. Though he tried to keep quiet, his footsteps thudded loudly. When he had finally made his way to the end, he rapped his knuckles upon the door. Without delay, a low, guttural voice responded. “Come in!” Governor Richton’s office was nothing short of a catastrophe. Papers and books flooded the room in messy, haphazardly-stacked piles. Black tea, or was it ink, had seeped into one stack, and instead of throwing them out, the governor had allowed them to languish in a corner. The governor himself, a short, portly fellow of middling age, sat behind a desk that was no less cluttered. The only saving grace was the large, uncovered window in the back that led out to a small overlook. The room, thankfully not bereft of sunlight, could at least be shown in all of its unholy glory. “Sit, sit!” Governor Richton called out to Thomas cheerily, gesturing to the two seats in front of his desk. Both were occupied by stacks of papers. “Never mind those,” Richton assured him. “You can set them aside.” Thomas warily made his way over to the right chair and carefully moved the papers onto the floor. He sat in it and stared across to the balding, fat Governor Richton, who bore a small smile. “Thank you, governor.” He shuffled through his overcoat again, passing the same papers as before to the man. “I am sure you are aware of who I am.” Richton nodded, and his kindly smile turned into something of a smirk. “Baron Sirion informed me of your impending arrival… along with a recommendation that I have you thrown in the cells.” Thomas’s heart dropped when he heard the words. It was rare to even be received now at the courts and estates he ventured to. His lineage was too high to be allowed near the jobs of the common man, yet his family’s station was too lowly, too disgraced, for his presence to be welcomed or even tolerated. He had hoped that in Obel, a place greatly disconnected from the many great courts and intrigues of Aeldin, he could find a home. Now that final door appeared to be closing. “Please, Governor Richton! I’ll work for you in any office, high or low, and not resent my service. Give me a small room here, and I will work loyally and ably until the end of your service,” he begged. Richton did not respond, and instead looked over the papers that had been handed to him. “Your mother makes a similar appeal here, it seems,” he scoffed. “How kind of her, given the sort she was. Does she fare well?” Thomas thought back the beatings he had endured by her hand, the drunken mess she made of herself in the castles and estates of each host. More often than not, her incessant groveling and begging had resulted in the two of them being thrown out. More often than not, she had blamed him for it, and rendered another beating. The last time Thomas had seen her was well over a year ago, and by then it was clear the drink had taken what was left of her feeble mind. He quietly hoped she was either being well-cared for or was burning in hell. “As usual with her, Governor Richton.” He shrugged. ”Probably not too different since the two of you last met.” The governor laughed at that. “You've got her wit, at least. One of the few things she possessed. Tell me, Thomas Augustus, what do you know of tending a field?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Of directing grain shipments?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Of surveying land, so it may be sold and distributed for use as a farmstead, or any other necessary purpose?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Of settling legal disputes between grant holders?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Then what use do I have for you? Do you think I’ve room to sponsor some wastrel courtier? To give you a cushy job behind a desk that doesn’t require the brains of an ox?” The governor squinted at Thomas with small, beady eyes. “I thought you’d have learned from your father’s example. He went around begging for postings, as you once did. The fourth son of a man two generations removed from a baron in Sabonen, himself five generations removed from an emperor. Yet still, he called himself a ‘Horen’ and said that he ‘bore the blood of the dragons.’ He was no dragon, Thomas. He was a pathetic sod who married a wretched woman, and they both pissed away their meager inheritances.” “I understand, Governor Richton.” Thomas clenched his teeth, staring back at the man with a stony gaze. He had no love for his mother and never knew his father, yet he could hardly tolerate these insults to his family, to himself. “An hour before you did, I met with a cobbler’s son who was seeking work. Some of my farmers needed their shoes repaired, and we had few spares, so I hired the man on the spot. To think that I have more use for a cobbler’s son than for the ‘blood of the dragon’.” Governor Richton laughed again, though this one was far crueler. It was evident to Thomas that the man could no longer think of him seriously. “How old are you, Thomas Augustus?” “Thirty, Governor Richton,” he answered through clenched teeth. Richton laughed again, his large gut wobbling as he did so. “At thirty, I was overseeing repairs to border fortifications to the east. Yet, looking through your records now, I see nothing of note…” He flipped through a small stack of papers before him, neatly aligned and presented. “If I knew that my service here would be limited to being an object of your jests, then I would have brought a glove, so I may have challenged you for the slights you make,” hissed Thomas, gritting his teeth as he rose from his desk. “I bid you a good day, Governor Richton.” “Stop. There is one thing I see here, and it may just be your lucky ticket to make something of yourself, belated as it is,” Richton called out to Thomas, gesturing for him to return to his seat, which he did. The governor then put one of the many papers before him. “It says here that you took part in some anti-piracy operations off of the coast of Endaen.” “I did, yes.” “It doesn’t seem you served with any great distinction, but that matters little. You have experience, which is what my brother needs.” The governor rose from his desk for a moment. He waddled to a chest in the room and opened it, pulling from it a large map, which he unfurled atop the desk, knocking aside a quill and several books in the process. “He’s an admiral in the navy, if you weren’t aware.” Thomas’s eyes went wide, and his spirits returned to him again. “I know ships, yes. Anything your brother may need, I can do.” Richton nodded. He then pointed to a cluster of islands on the map, far to the south and west of Aeldin. “Here lay the Duchy of Furnestock. Have you heard of it?” Thomas shook his head. “I thought so. They’re far away, and have had little relevance. Until now. They’re a collection of sixteen islands, conquered by some prince from the far west half a century ago. Some of our traders have found that the islands are rich in spices, but we’ve long been denied the rights to found a port of our own. Now, though, the tides have changed.” He drew a circle around one of the islands on the exterior of the cluster, the smallest of them all. “Agathor wants a port here, and now we’ve the opportunity to. News travels slowly from the west, but whispers have reached me. Oren is no more, leaving Furnestock isolated. My brother has been authorized to lead a small fleet to force the governor to grant us rights to build a port. We don’t need, or want, the whole thing. Just one port.” “Am I to join this expedition, then?” Thomas asked. “Precisely. No doubt they’ll put up some resistance. It shouldn’t be too much, but we’ll need someone to lead the forces ashore. Agathor has been blessed with peace for years, but it means we lack men with combat experience. You bring some of this. Succeed here, and we can promise to outfit you a ship, which you may take to anywhere you want. However, it is best you leave Aeldin behind. You carry with you the burdens of a lineage that benefits you little, and parents that have weighed you in debt. Make a life elsewhere, Thomas,” the governor said, now quite sincere. He clasped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Your mother, the wench that she was, saved me once. Consider this a favor repaid. I’ll let you reside in one of the guest rooms for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll give you a letter, which you are to take to my brother in Pronce.” Thomas sat there, stunned. For years, he and his mother had traveled from court to court, begging for some estate, some income, some job that they could work in service of the local lord, lady, or governor. In almost all cases he had been met with rejection, shunned for sins that were not his, and mocked for a name he could not live up to. Now, though, opportunity stared him in the face. He needed only to wrap his fingers about it, grasp it, and never let it from him.