Callistus

literally nothing has changed. you nerfed down some of the abilities but that minor setback still doesn’t make it a detriment – they remain an effectively ungrounded powergaming instrument.

ah oui, the go-to argument to **** on admin regardless of the answer

That I said about the changes your people had conducted to the original lore, which I completely stand by because it precisely is just that. And in your baseless comparisons you repeatedly liken the variously inspired mechanics of the Werbeast to the ones made here, but that is in-fact far from the truth. You cannot excerpt almost any segment of the Werbeast and attribute it to a singular franchise (bar the aforesaid) but the references here to Netflix’s Drakula are nearly innumerous, so your comparison still falls short. This is especially profound because you yourself had been at odds with the very tropes and themes that you now stand by, again proving contradictory (refer to Mordew’s vampire serfs). Is it simply because you had a hand in this? We shouldn’t have to argue and put into comparison two entirely different lore pieces at all and I’m hardly pleased in having to disperse your notions, but you had to stoop low by referecing another lore piece in response to what was initially a widespread consensus. This isn’t going anywhere.

Another defunct argument, Jack. You entirely misinterpret the meaning I convey for another. We essentially built our lore from the ground up (hence the “from scratch”), whereas you had a framework to do with and hardly kept true to it at that. If you wish to botch the lore for dawnguard vampires, then by all means, go for it – but then it’s hardly strigae anymore. The only notable Werbeast segment you could attribute to another franchise is the Botchling, which contradicts your initial statement (that the lore is in entirety a blatant skyrim and witcher rip-off) and in that case, I iterate that it had long been played by the ET prior to its induction and all we did was realize it into the canon through our lore. It’s nothing new. It’s a losing fight, I again am not involved with the strigae in any manner so either use my criticism to further your work or take affront to it and retort with childish jabs. There’s no point in responding to an initially misguided retort, so I’ll leave it at that.

The entire response feels a forced and petty bite back at us and our piece because you had let yourself be insulted by critical comments, but here’s the thing Jack. The difference that sets apart a bland trope from ours is that we diversified intensively throughout the lore and saw its conception from the bare foundation, from scratch. To say that our lore should draw heavily from one source at large and in any part is plainly unfounded and an insult borne of scorn – show me one aspect of our lore that in any way resembles “Skyrim werewolves” or “Witcher werewolves” beside skin-deep similarities and an ET creature that was already being played by ET prior to its induction and realization into canon through the lore. It’s not “masked beneath a veil of folklore”, as clever as this might’ve made you feel typing; because in reality we’ve been conceptualizing this document for over a year’s time and not only to design and write, but also scour deep into basal mythology and little-renowned legends to achieve that folkloric leg on which we stand. At least the effort was there at not being a barren and bland transcription, whereas all that was done in this rendition of yours is essentially nothing short of – forgive me my sincerity – a rip-off, though stripped of the only redeeming qualities and attributes that gave strigae their original esthetic; a uniqueness for which many people willingly gave up their classic vampire hatred to see come into fruition. I iterate: nothing of relevance was corrected (don’t argue this by referencing our lore again) – you ripped a piece off up front, plastered it as is, and then didn’t even bother committing to this “new aesthetic” of yours beyond strewing several edgy abilities like venom fangs, Netflix drakula’s memory reading and (if the reference art were to be taken seriously) disfunctional wings. That’s not why strigae were shelved, it instead sounds like someone’s excuse to appease their l'amour massivecraft fantasies. It genuinely doesn’t serve you, and I couldn’t give less of a **** whether or not strigae were a thing. The general consensus outside of your clique is that the lore has seen its culmination, so why ruin that? To quote my close confidant, its time has passed. Give it a rest.

pretty sure I’ve heard this elsewhere.. but please desist the bland and recurrent trope of “dracula” skyrim vampires, it only brings pain unto my eyes. the lore (mostly excerpted from the original) isn’t bad per-se, but it doesn’t fix what strigae were shelved for.

Update A band of mercenaries, on scouring the land from the Monk Temples into the Orenian capital, relate that the site from which these incidents are rumored to originate lies in a village south of provinicial Haense and Rubern, not far from their crossways in a field of meadows and heath. The alderman is old of age and appears to be among only few inhabitants. Cases of disappearances and the like do not yet appear to worsen, but they are of unpredictable nature and so caution must always be exercised.

I’d sooner walk the streets of Wuhan bare-skinned Never acquainted myself with one of theirs, but the Kurd is an enemy of Byzantium’s usurpers. You know how goes the adage – the enemy of my enemy... in the end, Kōnstantinoupolis delenda est.

who? :^)

We’re getting there. Well, this is a tough one. I’m afraid I cannot give you a definitive answer as I don’t have a precise “methodology” by which to run my emotes and the actions of a character, but I generally try to avoid ****-tier memery (shitposting is, after all, the scourge of all good rpers) and actually put effort into rightly conveying the persona. A lot of it stems from OCD tbh, and if I’m not in the mood to write, I’d unsurprisingly avoid lotc like the plague. This probably isn’t what you want to hear, but read more books of an author that you prefer – don’t skim the lines for a rough grasp on the narrative, but analyze the lines at length and in depth. You’ll gradually find yourself incorporating a lot of the style into your plays. It’s ironic that I don’t read as much in sheer volume as likely everyone else here, but I savor that which I do and if the writing is good, spend a lot of my free-time on end studying its flow. It pays off. It helps that I’ve immensely (and sadly) lost interest in a lot of video-games too, as I now have all the more time to spend on gym, school and writing. As for your last question, there’s something that I’ve noticed terribly plaguing the server now more than ever in regards to character creation. A lot of players base their characters on their real life whims and wonts – what they want to achieve in lord of the craft, what they want to wield in magick and artefacts. While this is not a bad thing in theory, (People make these characters to “enjoy” themselves after all) it is in truth the root of all the imbecility that is self-insertion. If you make a character that aspires for the very thing that you as an individual seek, it is only natural that your character will come to follow in suit both your own desires and characteristics. I instead urge folks to tease their characters from a variant (and never only one) of different and well-written fantasy characters – not to serve as an IRP passage to some overlord’s dark magic clique, but to flesh it out intriguingly in such a way that does not scream “knock-off” or cheap mimic. It’s like concocting a broth – draw from different sources to make something unique but enjoyable. Disgusting. Do not fell my ears with such vile rot. None were “absurd” in their own rights, they’re all the same idiotic weebs who’d sell their souls to play in their favourite naruto server with the name “Boruto” to enable them the right of bragging superiority over others. The offers began upwards of 500, and 300 I therefore considered low-balling (when you’re constantly offered a minimum of $20,000 for a car, it’s easy to shrug off an offer of $5,000). Before conclusions arise that I’m latching onto the name because I’m also a lifeless weeb, I’m not a ******* animugoon. But it’s because there often isn’t any mutual trust and I end up being offered a grand or so under the condition that I also give my email. Now I’d bend in and do it if I really needed the money, but it’s not hard to see that it’s not at all worth the effort of putting aside an email I’d owned for 13 years over a month’s worth of cash. It’s a hassle and if I wasn’t careful enough, unsafe. I’ve grown a penchant for ingenious political roleplay. It’s really arbitrary; If you’d asked me a year ago I’d have answered “merc” or something of the like, but this is what I’m digging as of late. My tenure in the server is short-lived in comparison to most and I therefore couldn’t apprise that wide a selection of groups that I enjoyed the most, but of the several that I did partake, I think the Black Reiters come first. After which stands the Jackal Sect. The werewolf is a subject of much contempt, and certainly not one any joe could pick up and expect to nail – but I thought given the interests Jentos and I had in common, and the themes in which we both indulged, that it would suffice for us both to deliver it justice. It wasn’t this idea we simply thought up on the run that would grant us boons and elevate us in the lotc ladder of fame, then, that was the primary drive. It would’ve turned out weak and short-lived if so. But it was a theme that we both thought we’d enjoy and perfect in a carefully written narrative, even torn from all the temporal desires of combat. It is as hooked as that of a turken youngster’s if you were to glaringly gander at the side – albeit straighter in virtue of the Greek progeny that runs in me. One can only expect diversity to flourish upon a mix-blooded mutt alike myself.

I never thought I’d partake in these gay threads for insecure people, but here it goes. ask me anything (lore, life, opinions) also check out this furry lore, I’m just fishing for upvotes. my terrible tenure in the CT ruined my ******* ratio, **** them

An old collective of woods and frayed timbers across the colonized settlements strewn beneath the Arcasian mountain-range appear, as of late, a breeding ground to many a strange occurence, for the far-by villages have allegedly lost several children over the year’s passing in spread, but evidently related chains of kidnappings, the patterns and quantification of which may ring most familar to experts in this pertinent line of work among both huntsmen and the now-extinct preceptors of the witch-hunting trade. The Disappearings of 1754 “Safe and without issues, the roads hither were. But deep in the undergrowth of this here province, a foul thing festers, feeding on our already withering crops – a child-eating beast, no doubt, who indulges villy upon the blood of the weak! A hatchling fiend, or one’uv’em terrible mutants – kikimore, was it?” – Hem, the newly-appointed alderman of a mountain settlement to an imperial inquisition – the erstwhile elder having died to unknown forces the week past More knowledge on the matter could undoubtedly be gathered of the precise roots from which these kidnappings might have originated, however none thus far among the entrants had emerged, and none again could therefore apprise so much as a trace over the nature of these happenings. For what lurked in these grim depths, if a thing, was of sentient – indeed, humanoid – bearing, and had adeptly and wisely appropriated his senses to ensure that no left-over trails such as the routine torn limb or scattered entrails would be left of his deed, or at all lead the hunters as to whither it hangs, indicating that it might very well be of an intelligence far greater than that of the common elf. These crimes weren’t of accustomed nature as it were with the occasional sewer alp or the wretched gnome of the outskirts – who are also as equally afeared, if not more-so than the alps, for the tales that nannies tell their children in scaring them into sleep – but it is a strange matter of terrible proportion and graver consequence. Inquisitors of any sort had better take care that they arrive rightly armed and armored lest they too fall victim into the conniving trappings of whatever it is that preys therein. Blood, blood galore shall stain the earth. The casualties and consquences of negligence for this event may grow in gravity the longer it is left without attendance, and the threat level, rather than be spoonfed here, shall be left to the evaluation of scout parties or player(s). Message me on finding the event site (not going to give ‘hints’ so save yourselves the trouble) Callisto#6280

I was being ironic but this actually originates in sutica. lmao

A godsent.

yeah, no. give this a hard pass. no balance, no elements of any intrigue, this effectively boils down to little more than a powergaming instrument for people who just watched the overblown netflix show to indulge in their edgy fantasies of copypaste geralts of riva and who, mark this, are likely to end up drunk in some sutican tavern with yet another psuedo vengerberg. The protagonism in lotc has already seen its culmination, it shouldn’t be encouraged any further. yeah the whole sutica hate-train has grown to be a stale meme but the issue is real, y’all know what sort of players will get their hands on this. I do not endorse. If the Story Team even considers this, I’d truly lose heart.

A man questions the very sanity of this particular cosm of which they are habitant

The initial two weeks deadline for pending lore should be stretched so as to compensate for the time lost. I’m fine with waiting, but 2 weeks aren’t enough if half that time is spent awaiting some clarification.

An old backstory I had written half-sanely a long while ago. Enjoy (or not) What a poor thing, he was. The lost dog. Not only a bastard, and a fatherless orphan, but it was before his very own eyes that his mother died. A *****, a ***** of a mother, who cared not an ounce for the child. Not a modicum. But she begot him, and she flung at his weak hide, rending him with horrid scars, and to this day do they linger upon his skin, like memorial marks, a relic to endure the ages. She cared little, and yet she kept him alive. The feeble, piteous thing. Yet fate followed not far behind her, the wench. The perfidious fate that would, time and time again, befall sinners like her. But fate was also a *****. It also trailed after the pureblooded, the pious, and even the heathens. And such fate, of the ill-sort, ordained itself unto the wench, restless may she ever be in death, ever hung and festered within a sarcophagus of old dirt. Rubbish. Such was her worth. A coffin of manure, and rotten copse. She fell, that one, dreadful night, to the blade of an honorless ravager, in an assailed tavern. How he relished her death, it was almost as if, deep within, he knew of the rot that lurked within her heart. The bitter seed of a bastard’s mother, and the wife of a drunk. He played with her scalp, the brigand did, and feasted on her flesh. For what else was there to eat? He beckoned his comrades over, and they drunk their fill, and drowned their sorrows away – those brought on by the war so feverishly raised in the Aeldinic mainland, by the province of Morce. They drank the wine from her thick skull, and they whispered secret tales amongst one another. Forbidden lies of the age of yore, and tales of an unsung lore. Dark, forgotten truths. And they bartered jokes, and they howled in laughter. Whilst there, peering from the broken shards of a window, stood the child, gandering at the remainder of his mother, what was left of her that hadn’t gone to ash or wronged scalp. He watched, silently. He couldn’t recognize the head; for how could he? It was but a skull. No. A carved dome. A figure of bone. But he knew it for what it was. No other head could have been so rotten, so vile.. a thing of foul progeny. But he recognized it upon dry blood. The wrong, misgotten blood. That of bastards and whores. Of his own lineage. The boy would not forget that blood, spilt at the night of reckoning, the night on which justice, a sore lie, reigned. Soon, the child, orphaned all the more without mother nor father, fell in service to the mark of the broken lance. Where he was properly fathered, and trained more akin to dog than man, to service his clients’ bids. Blades drawn, the dogs – or better yet, Jackals – ventured into the accursed swamps, basins and troughs, and they all drenched their steel in the blood of beasts. Him and his brethren, shoulder-to-shoulder, ridding the land of all prancing monstrosity. And they did, for years, even beyond his coming of age. But the poor, wretched thing.. Even he knew, that fate hadn’t meant for him to last that long. Nought would last, and even the greatest of feasts are wont to be dined upon. Thus, the night came. And the crows sung, and the dead cried. When within dark fogs, they danced away. Striking their blades unto craven foes, and risen dead. But another hound yet came. And another. And another, for much time. Whereupon a head sprung aloft, and the weak screams disgorged. The screams of children, who hadn’t any time to grow. Little Jackals. And who knew not playthings and games, but hunger, steel, and wretched stains. Blood of brothers, not foes. He veered abruptly, trying to catch a look, but there, he froze. Speechless, he stared at fate, and fate stared him back, and his mouth fell agape. Dancing, flurrying, their blades ceased. The murky dirt was drenched wet beneath the severed head, with blood gushing abundantly, a feast for the earth. But the poor, abject child.. he could not even weep the death of a friend. But more; a brother. Another figure prowled against the boy’s back, and plunged a blade deep – low into the broken soul of a sorry thing, not even meant to be born. The offspring of godless sin. The child awoke after the passing of many months, but alone. In the warmth of their keep, beside a kindling hearth. He rose from the bed, jolting at the agony within his abdomen. Alive, but among the dead, who knocked at their coffins underneath, deep below. He could feel their hideous teeth clattering, smiling at his paltry self. At his misguidance. And he wearily limped, and trudged farther, and the ages passed, but nary a trace was left of his brethren. Naught. But the man still hunts, even now. Lest fate befalls him, as it did they. . . But it wouldn’t. It’s all a terrible antic. A mad verse, the lot of it. Farces, and frivolous blood. It’s enough to make a man sick