Callistus

That’s our intention. And Jentos did as much as I, credit the damn frenchman.

With respect to the writers of past werewolven iterations, the nature of their concepts was fundamentally flawed to such proportions (as we’ve seen numerous times) that to simply work upon fixing them isn’t a feasible resolve. As for including them in the common legends and superstition, that could be seen to a compromise should the Story Team see it fit, but I’d rather not affiliate this piece with its predecessors as their origins contradict and greatly differ.

We’re avoiding correlation with that whole “feral” trope. This is an entirely different take on lykanthropy, and consolidating it among druidic mythology defeats the purpose and repeats the failed cycle.

So restless is the devil in his drive.

Many inspirations were drawn from variant Mediterranean, Athenian, French and other European folklore, as well as the CDPR video-game itself. THE BASTARDS OF THE WRETCH “What the F*CK.” —Ser Claudes, moments before his ultimate demise to what reportedly was a great group of wolves “The ancient and clever, genius of all guile, the sly, the scholar, and profound; thou who bringest victory or vestige, and makest folk to be well or unwell - I beseech thee, O’ father of all malice, by thy vast charity and thy lavish prize, to do for me what I ask.” The First A portrait of Karzełek, the first of his kin First of the accursed children, a hideous, pale thing and by far the smallest of his kin, measuring a little beneath eight feet. A truly defaced sore to the sights, haggard and gaunt, like the cursed breed of a most disrelished nightmare. The First favours populated hamlets to prowl by, easily lurking within cliffs and high-hills, or residing in abandoned caves or ruint buildings. Yet of all these locations, wells were no doubt it's favourite, as it would wait down amidst boundless depths for the early morning rays to send wives collecting water - whereupon it yanked the firstmost chance to spring, and wrench their flailing forms down into the pit, where they often met their untimely ends. The predicament commonly resulted in the poisoning of the villages’ water systems. This creature is, owing to its size and anatomical shape, the quickest of all its brethren, with speed matching that of a war-horse, thus and so making it the quickest to tire. It is however extremely fragile to blunt forces, and, not unlike any other child, harbors a great fear of fire. The claws of the beast are unnaturally sharp, sturdy, and, partly due to its long limbs, of ample strength to tear through most armaments given the effort. Its mental state is a thing most unheard of, and while the beast is certainly mad and of a great thirst for the blood of men, its shrieks are known to resonate high and low within the night sky, conspicuously when the moon is great and high, with no clouds to shelter it - an occurrence to which many a wives’ tale owe their origin. The Second Rübezahl, as described by a witness prior to their sudden death The second, taller of his kin, measures a towering nine feet in height. Often associated with thick, dark woods, this creature cares little for the time of day to appear, as its domain provides the necessary shade their kind is accustomed to. Rübezahl is often seen as the most patient of the three, being able to wait out in some dormant state within his woods for hunters or straying villagers to step into his den. His cries were well-nigh unheard, reserved only for the after-feast, whereupon carrion crows and ravens flocked eagerly to pick at the gruesome remains of his supper. Some folks even went as far as to suggest that the birds themselves held a sacred bond, consorting in the quiet with the woodland lord in exchange for what might remain of his meals. Like all beasts halved in nature, he lacks basic intelligence, and is yet thought to be the most powerful of his kin – being able to charge not unlike a massive bull on all fours across timbres in pursuit of ripe flesh. A pair of twisting horns cover his scalp, and another of hooves, that he may trod hard-ground. Hunting techniques exhibited in various accounts of the beast often tell of a far more primitive approach, suggesting he tends to charge down his adversaries by surprise; demonstrating, otherwise, an entirely reckless nature. The Fourth A lost portrait, depicting The Błudnik By all means the most twisted and secretive of his kind. The Fourth is a patchwork mess of a beast, bloated and warped, with elongated limbs and shortened claws, a hunched back and a height a mere nose beyond eight feet. He lives within steppes and hills, swamps and woodlands far from the traces of civilization, preying prominently on solitary villages, where he would writhe up at night in adept silence to hook and gut people, leaving but traces of their remains as he returns to his lair. The beast tends to approach with far more cunning than his simpler kith, calculating rudimentary schemes and tricks to attract the unwary, luring them expertly into his hunt. He is also able to mimic the sound of stray children and stranded men, feigning their cries as to attract the friendlier folk; whence he would lurch swiftly to tear them apart. Whilst his counterparts favor the taste of youthlings, this one has a particular fondness for the elderly. As one might indulge in a fancy bottle of wine, one sips. And so too does the Błudnik, flavouring his prey, piece by piece, to later leave their remnants hanging beneath a low branch. His long legs enable him to outrun most prey on even ground, and conversably, jagged surfaces prove the profaned beast a tedious challenge. Under many circumstances, the lowland monstrosity may take to behaving in such strange manners that to attempt and predict him with any air of precision can be hard, and contrary to reason; as is preferring instead to walk on hind-legs as to frighten whomsoever he marks prey. * The third and fifth of children, to no man’s surprise, could not survive far beyond birth. The third perished first - while it was a mighty thing, of at least twelve feet in height, it lacked the basic instinct of survival of its other compatriots (or was it simply perhaps because it was a she?) She was cut down in the outskirts of Felsen, the brave city-watch driving all manner of lances and bolts into its body, before cutting her up in pieces with the intent of serving her in a pie, knowing with mad certainty that feasting upon the thing, much like it feasted upon men, would be the only sole way to destroy it, for even chopped up it quivered and shook. All those that partook in the strangely savory meal died a long, painful death, the contents of the pie never leaving their guts, rendering them constipated and sick, some aberrant leprosies taking ahold of them. They would later be mourned as martyrs; selfless heroes of the Empire. The fifth was reportedly killed during the Axios tragedy, taking refuge amongst the gods-cursed, beastly city of Mordskov where it thrived on the surviving inhabitants, lurking insidiously amongst the unsightly horrors which would come to populate the region. The thing’s head was since brought back by a pair of supposed hexers riding from the Pale City of Mordskov with some other, unknown, individual of blonde hair. The whole ordeal was documented by one of the Courlandic refugees that had worked in the Cockatrice league, a fine group aimed at culling the Mordskovian scourge. The instance of its death and the exact details remain unknown, even to this day. Compendium I The Bastards’ strength is dictated by the above descriptions, with each of the brethren possessing attributes unique to their form. The Bastards are highly susceptible to regular flames and aengulic sorceries. While certainly fatal, the sight of fire might cause them to flee, eliminating any possible chance of destruction. Gold and silver will cut through the Bastards’ flesh with greater ease, as if it were human meat, whereas steel and iron have a harder time penetrating their thick hide. The bastards are ultimately prone to death. However, the shortage of reported casualties roused doubt among precarious country-folk. The exact means through which they may die remains undocumented, with the last record perishing away with the great ruin of Mordskov. The Bastards of the Wretch are Event Creatures, reserved exclusively to the Story Team. Any use must however be agreed upon by the current lore holders, and for narrative-driven purpose only. One of the later Bastards, feasting on a bloodied corpse. On the common legend and superstition On many varying accounts, certain scholars held in marked esteem have devoted innumerous pages of books and compositions detailing some of the most monstrous beasts in prevalent myth. Of such legends, diversities in their out-ward forms and shapes seldom resembled the other, but they all coincided in the common fell of a wolf, its hide and mischief. Vargs; Indexium Lupus, vol i, on the extermination of the beast, M. Horst writes; “In Aeldin, among the village-folk of Emyth and Maeyr were preserved plenitudes of old and erroneous traditions on the subject of mythology and beasts of the legend, and not seldom did they speak of dead souls who after death are convicted to straggle hither and thither over the continent to be rid of their curse, or who live an impertinent life in their passing in the crypts as vargs, or lykanthropists. The folks’ beast, as witnesses maintained, slept in the grave with wide staring eyes; his nails grown into excessive lengths, in that they are almost talons, and his hair burst into thick sprouts of mane. When the aberrant is alleged to have fled his place of sepulture thus, the remains are earnestly unearthed; if it be in a juncture of adulteration or decline for the clergyman to drench it in blest water; if it be pure and pale-complexioned it is subject to purification, whereupon a sharp stake is thrust through and through its ribs lest it thrash forth and provoke bloodshed. In other smaller parts of the continent, lead was to be riddled upon the head of a carcass and then burnt entire, firmly believing that in doing so will shun the crows of decay, who then wing hurried away in awe of the profaned flesh.” Vukodlak; Akin both to the above superstition and the common werbeast is another held in Waldanian belief to be the Vukodlak, both terrible in strength and most hideously deformed among the many lesser variants. Indeed, he may be a gargantuan, a mere imp or of the height of man, yet none match this beast’s grotesquely appearance, in spite of which he is gaunt, with a great gaping maw and many fervent dribbling tongues set within which were crooked pale fangs, often garnished with tails high and scales peculiar only to their fearsome species. Common-folk differ as to their precise classification, for a portion of the populace assort them among demons base and rank, whilst others believe them to be men condemned and who, at certain days of the year, are stricken with a delirium in which they wander to and fro, devouring with their teeth all whom they meet, man be it or beast. Compendium II The Beasts’ strengths are dictated by the above descriptions and the dynamic myths to which they relate, with each iteration of the legends possessing attributes unique to their forms. The Beasts are highly susceptible to regular flames and aengulic sorceries. While certainly fatal, the sight of fire might cause them to flee, eliminating any possible chance of destruction. Gold and silver will cut through the Beasts’ flesh with greater ease, as if it were human meat, whereas steel and iron have a harder time penetrating their thick hide. The Beasts are ultimately prone to death. However, the shortage of reported casualties rouses doubt among precarious country-folk. The exact means through which they may die remains undocumented, with the last record perishing away with the great ruin of Mordskov. Whether or not such variant beasts were to be introduced as a form of flavoured Event Creatures is left to the discretion of the Story Team. This addition is written merely to contribute a folkloric air into the main piece and the general ambience. If not, it’ll simply be kept as a form of baseless legend circulating hamlets and lone villages.

A man of great faith keels over in the most strange of manners, screaming, “The fogs disapparate, the winds agone — an age of Gods and miracles has once again been forsworn! LEAVE! BUT WEEP! FOR AS OLDEN PROPHECIES HAVE SPOKEN, THE DEAD MEN WILL MOURN!” falling shortly thereafter into a madness of the highest order.

bike racks 3pm c*nt. fuckin oath

must’ve taken a toll on you.. it all adds up furthermore, i extend you an apology ahead of time.

look how their tongues thrash to and fro so emptily, spewing erroneous lies to grasp a worthless touch upon the blood. but the blood is sacred. why, the secretion of the pious priest can claim that it comes from the priest’s body although it reeks of stench and is entirely fruitless; and so does this seem to be the case. you folks are and remain folk, that is, peccary and senseless beasts.

What happened with the last rewrite?

Why is it written entirely in spoilers? Otherwise, I like it

You’re jumping too many guns here. But if that’s the case, then it’s admittedly more of a jab at necromancy as a concept than at the humble piece itself. If he hasn’t read it, then he can’t possibly be shitting on it, nor neglecting the effort that’s been evidently spent writing it. In so, you’re picking out nonsensical reasons to get aggrified over, and that’s detrimental to your mental state, so take a chill pill, calm, and mull over this whole non-existant issue for a while. Or you do you. But as a heads-up, you won’t get far if a gif’s got you overthinking to such a painful degree. Learn how to take a joke, or an apparently really offensive shitpost.

really hurt my big brain there. you blatantly stated that you were against negative criticism if it came from an LT member: so, why not use that manager’s genuine point of view as a kickstart to try and figure out what’s wrong, rather than whinge about their initial disapproval? you’re better off receiving their criticism, however “negative” it may seem, than be left in the dark.

Getting an unsalted response that doesn’t reflect said member’s genuine opinion only puts you under the assumption of having written good lore. But when it’s time for the piece to be professionally critiqued, that mr. nice guy shroud is removed and you’re suddenly bombarded by the fact that it didn’t actually appeal to them. And it hits harder because you’ve been embracing an outright lie for however long it took for them to declare their verdict. Facing the bitter truth upfront at the very least acquaints you with that reality, and motivates you to work towards a better end. Even if it took an unpleasant but honest opinion.

no sorry I have resigned the craft of musical composition

I expected no less from Mr. Sean here. The novel-writing tone, the spirit, and essence of professionalism and expertise depicted therein truly manifests itself to an exceptional maxima and often leaves me wondering of this man's inner genus, the level of transcendence and consummation to which his merit might stretch, as shown within this truly spectacular display of masterful work -- it is a wonder why he has yet to be inducted into the Story Team, as I believe his facilities and fluency in the deft ways of the language are matched by none in the current roster. The words here truly rhyme and shine out, the way they weave and weld together as though a chorus of untarnished perfection, or musical notes chiming in a comprehensive cacophony of eloquence -- indeed, it elicits forth feelings only ruled and mastered by the likes of Andrzjew Sapkowski, the writer and inspirator for the Witcher games, and preceptors of their crafts such as J.R.R Tolkien and George R.R. Martin. He is precisely, and all what the phrase "a man of perfection" stands for, an effigy of this age and time, who I can see evolving into someone far beyond our humble comprehension -- a talent unmatched. A round of virtual applause for this masterpiece.