Callistus

An old stargazer of the past generation finds intrigue in the letter, applauding that such an esteemed craft, once lost, now thrives in the school’s establishment.

((mcname: boruto))

((discord: callisto#6280))

- Name: Emreis var Lindenvale

- Age: 106, on the brink of death itself as he lies bedridden on his sickly cradle – only occasionally finding the strength to merely walk and converse on matters of. . ah, what hogswash. the old man can barely make speech.

- Relevant experience: claims to have peered beyond the corporeal veil, and uncovered things better left unseen -- lest damnation be brought upon its curious seer. and damnation he had wrought. the poor, weakly thing, even death had shunned him.

The application – barring the signature – had evidently been filled by another hand, there being such great difference in the quality of handwriting.

when is ww3 starting 

“There, within the sky’s bassinet, by the heavens strewn amongst countless stars, there resteth the sun; greater thing, a golden pendant, hurling beads of light. Afore it sat the hideous moon, an ugly conjury of hell and witchcraft, deceiving the bent light of faith. The men of Earth had thus, in fright, screamed their woes unto the ears of the deaf, their eyes grown naught and blind, and their breed born accursed; children burnt at the hest of the canonist stake, to be cleansed and berid of sin. It was thence a wretched thing men had feared; for light was sacred, but was also the accomplice of dark; spun hither together and consorting amongst one another; in a fiery hell, light and dark was bound in forbidden duality; light was the absence of dark, and the dark of light thereof.

Beckoned forth was the hand of God, wept upon several times; and thus in the same manner, twice and thrice over, that the moon may be dislodged; and in its stain may shine through the dead spirit of Adrammelech, and the lost light of God.

But if the aid of God were not conjured, although greatly pled, and limp were his right Hand to the pleas sung without response, may the sun thereby be devoured; and in its wane; dark shall reign.”

– An old folktale, origins unknown

“I fear no omen. But that night... that cursed night.”

The sun had risen far ahead of time, its fiery rays storming the vast variegations of warring cities in the North and South. Cast beneath its core unto Earth was an undulating darkness, the likes of which you would read within the lines of Canonical Chapters; overarching shadows born only in the dearth of light, and if the legends were true, in the prevalence of sin and iniquity. In the tongue of the Velianese, the flexion dialect, folk thought it the omen of darkening prospect; ékleipsis. And in the speech of common folk, the darkening of a heavenly body; thus similarly the eclipse. The mainlanders of men had taken to terribly fear this omen, ascribing to it a great deal of gullible phenoms and many an irrational superstition. To some, it signified the Ire of God, the imminence of a time of trial and suffering.

Of Mankind, and of many churches, there rung choirs of prayers that echoed strongly within the sacred halls and passes, vain cries rent out into the barren streets beneath that unpropitious daylight; a hymn sung only to ghosts, to bleak air.

For God, as it seemed, was not pleased, and therefore would not hearken or lend ear to their imperious speech.

The war-torn wheatfields rustled weakly beneath the wind, great oaken trees stirred to their root; whether by hellish miracle or god-sent curse, cold came to reign at the sheer height of day.
 

Such and so would steel unfurl from fallen scabbards, and in the midst of fog would rise an unseen terror, shrieking in emptiness, begging to be heard. Begotten by sorceries of old, shaken by some black speech, the buried stood in their graveyards and trailed the foolish Man without heart; blood and misery bound to unwind.

Such monstrosities dabbled in the quiet, feasting on the flesh of martyrs and the injured within fields of blood.

The sun turned and she wept, and in her absence malady ensued; For men had forgotten her, and the last of her vows, once forsworn, are now broken.

”Oh, thou who had angered the Sun, by what blasphemy do you plead your misdeed?’

((This non-combat addition is one of mere flavour, the past and present iterations of which were written for the sole purpose of driving distinct and newer initiatives into roleplay.

I had hoped to write more – although as we are nearing the Lore Games deadline, and it being in a period of finals, I had only several free days to work with. May this suffice.))

Arcane Displacement - The Ancient Art of the Planeswalker

“Revel in its machinery, peer into its depth. 

For just as blood wilts and the sands of age wane, space too does erode.”

Recovery of the Dictate

c. 1742

It is said that beyond the greater reaches of the Arcasian mainland, burrowed within a higher mountain, there nestled – in the heart of a valley – a God-fearing folk who found warmth and fidelity in seclusion, and whose appellation in the common tongue, present culture and history has been lately reduced to naught; churned to the sweltering curse of time. These people were handed down by ancient heredity many of the olden mementoes, many ethics and traditions to which they held safely over millennia with exemplary devotion. Heritage and items of antiquity – among which were tomes of unseen volume – they had come to take as gospels, the profound integrity of which they guarded with all that was then vested in their people. And yet such prideful perseverance was wont, as is the nature of all things, to come with a timeless scourge, a grave price bounden to be paid. Such was it that most children birthed there seldom were free of disease and ignoble malady, as if some curse had tethered to them by their sacred relics. In their ordinance, the destiny to which they were shackled, such children and offspring were fated a harsh death by either inevitable starvation, ill-gotten disease or – with their scarce grasps on the simplest ways of medicine – some common fever. The few who had managed to survive and thence outlived the throes of poverty, able-bodied and stout, did bolster the hamlets’ welfare and presided over as its ancient backbone; an unbroken spine by which the province lastingly abided. Always, until the fateful moon once foreordinated upon them had risen amongst the distant stars. It is in their midst that the Outvoker buried his book, and it was of his will that the illegible remnants of the Planar Dictate were to fall among their declining relics. 

At the beckon of that moonlit night, the unborn derelict came to reap what they had carefully sown. And not long thereafter, they (being referred as such for having no discernible gender) took to strewing the fabric written in parchments of altered knowledge into the eye and mind of the unwary; rooting chaos in the realm of the mundane and laying the borders of the veil blurred, arbitrary and of no true definition. The Outvoker had since torn all traces of the original and complete Dictate, for there now remain only several fragments from which one can tease the art of Shunting. 

The Inner Workings; Modus Operandi

The cryptic, inexplicable arts of shunting are those long since forgotten, barred from the planes of living Man, buried in ancient pages of torn books, and laid beneath crumbling sand. Only, in a few unrecorded instances, it was said to also be hid in the demented minds of dying men. Rank, despicable men, whose very shadows yearn to be torn from their souls by the elder spirits of death, yet whose times have not yet been fated to end. What few reports were written on this ‘magick’,  if it could even be called that, told of scholars who had attained insight of its etchings, turnt wretched of the thought, cursed of the bodies. After all, such knowledge was not meant for any living man to set eyes on. But man’s foul curiosity often tramps far beyond the mundane. And often again, it tends to their own demise. 

  “Why, you rotten witch! Have you no thought for the well-being of others?”

-Emreis, an old man made raving by the devilry’s taint.

The art of Arcane Displacement, otherwise termed shunting by those who do not think it fit to assort among the arcanes for its absence of voidal conjunction, is one sodden in deep and unfound mystery – those once etched within the volumes of cryptic grimoires and formulae. Through convolutions and methods unversed by only the most learnt of scholars, it accords the patient man, unattuned to the void but who has laid eyes upon its writings from “The Dictate”, or otherwise taught its exercise by an old practitioner, the knowledge with which to transcend the median binds of physicality and into the spheres of other stars and unearthed cosmos, afar the realms of normalcy. Men who dabble in the aforesaid can be left scarred, or lost beyond the reach of sanctuary; were they so unfortunate as to have fallen into the grasps of those who nest the sky. 

The mere process of shunting is one thought to be of such cosmical order that it can, without a modicum of doubt, upset the natural course of things, and awaken the psyche of many appalling aberrations; such entities that would thus be drawn to the perpetrator, the mere presence of whom they are wont to treat with greater resentment. It is therefore rightly postulated that these hordes of untold cosmic forces toil madly in the unseen horizon to impede the trials of a planeswalker.
 

One who inscribes the dictate’s eldritch knowledge upon his mind peers beyond the law of the material, wherein revelations once lost unfold with a gale of broken matter. For verily, in one’s acquiring of such lost knowledge, the physics construed within the cosmos are prone to a degree of breakage; as is the veil once wound around the observable realm prone to severance. It's very fabric rent, the flesh from which logic is forged thus unforged. And yet such ruin brought unto the veil’s contiguity comes not without its many deterrents. Those who so foolishly burrow their hands into the forbidden fabrics of the world can become bent of the mind, lost within the cinders of madness; whence they lay crazed, forgotten, burning. Others, sound of the mind, may descend yet to graves much unlike those known to Man. A barrow of the cosmos, where the souls of the enlightened rest, unmarked, forevermore; a fate so harsh some may deem it worse than death. Damned, too, are the beasts that lurk therein; born of the abnormal, feasting on the remnants of the fallen, tearing at the marrow, at the memoir on which one’s soul eternally resides. Arrogant, rueful, convicted are those who prowl the heavens – for they may know only fear and starvation.

 Such is the curse of the stars.

• One is always subject to death and harm without the confines of Earth. Conclusively, death out in the cosmos, far from the faculties of any monk, entails an irrefutable PK.

• Depending on the level of hostility in each realm (the order of which is detailed in a confidential document), each Saint’s Day spent in a realm may further aggravate the beasts within the cosmos and thus threaten the survival of a Planeswalker. Some realms are host only to docile creatures, others may severely endanger a player in as little as an hour – the character itself may never know.

The process lays still among the most treacherous of its kind, it being a provenience for greater energy; an immaterial source of ethereal power to which the worst of spirits, wraiths and gravens hearken and flock. As thus, it had become proud tradition amongst generations of planeswalkers, the which they would pass unto their younger heritors, to exercise a row of precautions. Having recited the proper chants as learnt within the Planar Dictate, enacting its patterns with expertise, the Planeswalker enwreathes himself in an occultic circle of salt and unspoken symbolics; wherein he may then contain himself of all approaching evil and malice throughout the prolonged spell.

• Shunting requires six emotes to perform and to be touched, so much as a poke, interrupts the enigmatic magic wherein it is nullified and must be attempted again.

  • Shunting requires complete and total concentration and thus cannot be performed in combat or to evade combat.

• Solo shunting must be performed through RP posts on the forums of the character traversing the plane they have landed in.

• LT must be consulted on the general ideas behind the planes being traveled to but otherwise the player has complete creative freedom in its design so long as it offers their character no inherent power, change, or advantage that does not require an application or lore besides an MART.

• Returning from a shunt with an object of any value more than mundane, useless, and inert must be approved through an MART.

• The speech and engraved symbolics enacted in one’s circle of ritual are left nigh-entirely to the creativity of the participants, likely consisting of flexion speech and indicative occult imagery (The abuse or memery thereof however is subject to severe punishment).

• A shunter may bring a single individual, even non-shunters, on their voyage.

An uncommon practice, although one not at all unheard of is that of coupling; in which a covenant of three shunters, led by their most knowledgeable, may bring forth a gate within thin air – of which the frames measure at least four by five meters (blocks), never exceeding seven in either dimensions. The rite, however, enforced by the powerful unison of several shunters, must be done in perfected proportions, with a most precise execution; such that if a word had been misspoken, or a hexagram unwritten, the process would be entirely set aback and undone. The gate may then serve a shared - albeit arbitrary - destination for the drove, and another shall form wheresoever they landed. Be it known, yet, that the excursion may be abruptly ended were the gate to be botched by even the lightest of matter; debris be it or a grain of dust.

• Requires one to have shunted to and from the realm intended and the material plane to map a portal to another realm for a portal alongside two additional shunters to create it.

• A portal may only be used to transport five individuals, even non-shunters, before deactivating. The frames remain intact.

In the wake of a shunter’s traversion, a line of grit and scatter (which in actuality is there only in concept) serves to anchor one’s presence upon earth, marking them an inseverable path back at the journey’s end. Unseen to the naked eye, only another shunter may pursue this proverbial trail by reenacting the shunting trial in its close proximity; whereupon they arrive to the same initial destination as the first shunter, whilst a mark of their own originates besides the first. An art known only to the eldest of shunters is that of retraction, in which the immaterial line is desecrated and its owner returned forcibly to their spot of shunting - regardless of consent. The power wrought by such initiative tends often to incapacitate the traveller.

”You speak boldly, for one in crucifying distance.”

-Wieslaw Marrow, threatening an ill-marked planeswalker

• Only two charms may touch another charm which is being tracked, creating a triangle of circles, likely two shunters chasing another. Any attempts to add to the charms results in failed castings.

Over the ages, historic texts on which the art’s methodology had been preserved became obscure, there being no more than several fragments to endure the trial of time. As such, the knowledge rests only in the minds of few; a remnant breed of this dying art, and also within the strewn pages of the Planar Dictate for those so dauntless to confront its darkness head-on – knowing very well they might risk losing the very light of their sanity.

The burden of passing down – or prevailing upon – such knowledge comes with many tribulations and greater anguish, and to bestow forth such an art more than once draws a cruel death upon the mentor. Only those taught the art directly from the Grimoire may ever teach it, and only after having mastered it thoroughly over a period of no less than three months. Thus is it that the survival of the art is of highest difficulty, thus is it that its effects are seldom come upon.

• Should a piece of the Dictate not be read from and hoarded for more than three months, it will be removed by the Outvoker and redistributed.

• To learn Arcane Displacement, one must have read it directly from the Planar Dictate and held it for at least 1 month or been taught by a shunter with a valid TA for 1 month.

• To teach Arcane Displacement, one must have read it directly from the Planar Dictate and held it for at least 3 months, at which point they can submit a TA. Moreover, a teacher may have only one student throughout his lifetime; they may teach a second, but the teacher will perish when the lessons are complete, resulting in a PK. 

General Redlines

• Locating lore characters / deities or their domains requires express consent from the LT.

• Shunting to new realms will transport the caster at random unless they are visiting a realm to and from which they have already shunted. For example one aiming to find Ebrietas could spend a lifetime shunting between an infinity of realms and have no luck.

• A player-made realm, if approved, could be visited without a roll – provided it is in keeping with the rules, is not a means to gaining boons or powergaming, and is not tied to any of the approved server lore as to avoid any complications. Pre-existent realms however require a roll under LT-oversight.

• The LT must be consulted for approval of realms to ensure that more popular ones are well fleshed out.

• Dying on a plane other than the material plane a shunter is from will leave their soul outside the ropes of the monks and thus a death in another plane is a permanent death.

• Although time passes differently between in each plane as per Gap Theory, the time differentials between the material plane and the other worlds does not allow individuals to learn magic faster or develop in any way, including age (should the player choose) and does not offer any advantage to the character in the way of advancement.

• Shunting may never be used in combat evasion (or in the midst of any conflict).

Below, as written by Zarsies and Mordu, are three examples of the approved planes within the multiverse. Note that each of these worlds may be as simple as a deity’s plane – singular in theme – or as complex and old as the material plane. Your own imagination is the limit here. More realms exist outside those listed below that aren’t included for confidentiality’s sake. Ping either Zarsies, Mordu or I if you have any inquiries.

Note: To travel into any of the existent, lore-tied planes such as Ebrietaes requires a roll under LT supervision, unless that realm has been visited prior by the same player in a previous roll.

• Parum | Land of the Unfulfilled | Lies and Scandal

A plane of unfulfilled promises: soldiers who didn’t return from war, adulterers, broken friendships, children who did not get the toy they wanted, and so on. Full of belligerent spirits and their land.

• Louj | The Looking Glass | Glass, Mirrors, Reflections, and Uncertainty

A plane of churning, mental enigmas wherein the physical body is but a reflection and the world is a labyrinthian maze of glass, crystal, and roughly hewn quartz. Here, mental willpower outweighs strength and powerful minds traverse the maze with much greater ease than one who views the world in more physical perceptions. At all times, creatures which enter this world have a doppelganger hidden in the glass manifest whose image distorts and twists the closer it gets to the original, pursuing them at all times. Should they touch this grotesque image will become physical and emerge from the mirrors and glass, attempting to devour the creature. Adjacent to itself.

• Anulon | Asulon’s Grandmother | Untamed Wilderness

A plane of vast, sprawling forests and jungles, perilous mountain ranges, arid deserts, grassy plains, and all other sorts of natural landscapes densely populated by predators and their prey of all kinds. No established civilizations reign in                    order here.

• Mechina | Cog Of The Machine | Mathematics, Machinery, and Technology

A plane of metal and fuel, this mechanical world is blanketed in a sky of smog with roaring engines of steam and blistering hot forges speckling its angular, rigid landscapes. Touched by Garumdir, the plane of Mechina is populated by reevers and polyites, mechanical automatons of gears and cogs whistling with steam and pipes of liquid which calculate, measure, and document all possible information which keeps the reevers and polyites busy. Adjacent to Fabul and Liber.

Referenced Lore:

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/172276-arcane-displacement/

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/139713-the-planes-of-existence-world-lore

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/165638-%E2%9C%93-space-from-within-the-void

Credits to Zarsies for writing the previous iterations and Pundimonium for offering suggestions



 

A man had once tried to read this whereupon he fell on all fours addled by some kind of cursed sickness a hellish pain wrung upon his body he lay frothing and bawling in a most horrid of sights not only struck by seizure but even unmade of sight thrashing clearly something had touched him that was not of this world something beyond the flaming borders of normalcy in which some writer had truly defiled all sensical law and in its wake another particular man peering upon the screen of his monitor had fallen to cardial arrest truly it was a sad morrow laden with sorrow.

Pierro Bracchus acclaims the distinguished youth for the expertise and eloquence by which he imposed himself within the noble assembly, wishing him only greater prosperity in reign.

"Porca miseria, Jean! It is nigh-time dear Adria was risen from the dead."

A young man of the once prevalent and prosperous Bracchus line had wetted his quill to pen the fine Ruskan host a response, stamping it with the mark of his forbears and consigning it thereafter to a carrier; whom would pass it over with utmost urgency.

“To the most gracious and diligent Dmitri, who I had not met, but of whom I have heard only good; I stand honoured.

Never had I thought to see the day in which great Adria, the provincial cradle of playwrights, wordsmiths and poets, and which I hold in only the highest of regard, would rise from the heights of dormancy and ruin to lighten yet another mainland. Verily, I had never seen, but have read of the tragedies that would time and time again befall these landmarks and cities that our fathers cherished. Kingdoms and empires had grown to insurmountable power and renown, only to fall and be lost within the dreadful annals of history. All would be forgotten eventually, as is the natural course of things; all but Adria, for it is unlike most, and folk would see it awaken always in the least favourable of odds. It is one graced with such integrity, such candor that the rot of time alone is not sufficient to have it truly lost or done away with. And I, a descendant of the once-known Bracchusian bloodline have also been nadir; rock-bottom. Ours is the blood of Saints and great men, true symbols of the golden age and folks who had hefted the burden of entire cities on their backs. Ours is of virtuous blood, not water, and just like our cherished Adria, we will see the name of our old progenitors and ancestors rise from ash.

Dmitri, I lay most honoured to be guest to your invite, to the Dumapalooza, and I await with great fervency the days to come.”

I never understood this infertility bs from an ooc standpoint. It pushes for a pure sexual mentality without the essential family-building aspect of it — why not just roleplay the unpleasant consequences? An unwanted child is had and you could instead just abort it, leave in the gutters and put up a sign. Have some guilt and wives-tale inspired fear of it. That contributes towards RP, not this miserable sex land in which children aren’t conceived like it’s 2019 or something.

never give up

Applications are practically effortless nowadays, doesn’t take half a brain and a couple minutes to write one up.

A man – some man, unmuddled by the troubles and tribulations of politics – reads aloud the poem to a peasantry contingent; a flock of the impoverished. A poem at which the grown folk burst laughing.

“By what rights do they dare claim an empress to have it worse? They act by shame, not sorrow.”

“Hear, hear! One cannot pretend to mourn righteously when they, indifferently and without the slightest sense, walk over dead carrion by the dozens. Their grieve as it seems pertains only to that of Kings and Queens.

Shame, not sorrow.”

4 hours ago, ScreamingDingo said:

The bureaucrat continues onward with his loaf of bread, acknowledging his look. With that, he'd then tip his hat towards the carriage driver, but why?

The carriage driver carries on, having acknowledged the tip of a hat. At the coming of his next client, he smiled wittingly, but why?

Let’s all stop whinging about every other administrative step and actually endorse that ****’s being done. Do not belittle the small (at least in your eyes) achievements in fighting what has been a lengthy dark age for rules and forums.

Put down your little (justifiable) hate-boners, change is gradual.

“This kind, ser, we call the Volka; in which womenfolk conceive themselves wolves. In Auvergne, they call them Ganipote.”

-Consultant Jean-René to a foreign duke on the subject of affliction, 1693

“Verily, there remain very few beasts in present compiled bestiary, of both the fictional and existent, that are as wont in invoking such fear and striking as much terror in the hearts of hunters and stouts to the degrees to which Vukodlak, or the Varg so terribly and consistently manages in spite of his dying populace. Partly with their numbers having been whittled down to the point of near (or absolute) extinction, their hordes forcibly driven away beyond the borders of their natural habitats, and partly for the difficulty with which their lesser counterparts come to couple. 

The Ganipote, or Volka however, resembling much more a wolf than a man, is of no such variation; for she treads on all fours, hunts and thirsts for children just as the wolf, and breeds ably, to a set extent, with other mutts of the forest; a distinction that sets her apart from other beastfolk, and makes the identification of their kind a matter of far greater difficulty. 

In our admittedly failed excursion to track and retrieve evidence proving of Ganipote’s existence, traces left were indeed numerous enough; and although she may have gone extinct, as have many regal draconic species in the past, the Ganipote, much like her cousins, left her lasting mark in the antiquities of Man; having trodden southern snows, ridden the outskirts of old and now-battered Orenian cities, and howled amongst shepherd’s most unfortunate herds; whose entrails they fell on and tore without the slightest reprieve. A vicious beast, no doubt, but one that, over time, folks of later generations will come to treasure for its simplistic primitivity and, even later, mourn its extinction. 

And still, we would be too rash and ill-learnt to so easily conclude that it has posolutely gone extinct! For, if God wills, it could still roam the Sutican woods, preying on the minds of elves (to which we may safely attribute their imbecility and dullness of mind), ranging Arcasian hills or even be found howling its starve to the cold winter breeze.”

- Anonymous Author

The abandoned millstead of the Wretch Father, following a great flood.

c. 1498

Recovered Origins

“Why, you ill-gotten witch; have you not a grain of thought for the well-being of others?!”

–The Wretch, to a southeron sorceress during his excursion. Exeter, unknown

“Among but a few of the black scripts ascribed (presumably) to the Wretch of Laria – a subject of variant lost myths and drunken tales, and a man whose existence was even falsified by some folk – were those parchments inked in blood upon uncleant leather, found within the moth-eaten stead of a swampen wreckage; thought to be of his very own residence. As myself, several other scholars and a band of valiant armed militiamen scoured into the remnants thereon, we managed to procure several trails of the Wretch’s deeds, traces that told of his exercised black devilry beneath the ash and rubble of the extirpated abode.

The stench that prevailed was unlike any other; for it told the sacrifice of not only man, but beasts – of which there were lamb, cattle and others – of the nearby Veldt and Mires that were left to rot before being burnt at an altar to appease the exalted fiend (or what he perceived, under false illusions, to be God's own sent image, when it was in actuality the devourer’s). Severed members and residue of unfeasible stench littered the terribly cold walls of the basement, piss and excretion or even faecal matter, too, were not at all uncommon; and to be particularly noted was the lack of any garderobes or shiteing stools, which clued us into the putrefied lifestyle braved by the forgotten Madman. 

As we prowled carefully deep into the winding chambers and crevices held unseen behind large tapestries, we were able to unearth The Laboratorium brewing several feet underneath swamp mud; it having been utilized right until its final days pre-destruction when the walls began to fall apart and wood pried clean off. Many of the bloodlet concoctions that hadn’t festered to harsh humility or given in to prolonged exposure were retrieved, and many more still were lost in the process; with skin-bare rodents thrashing in fear and shattering vials, and who, thanks to strange experimental rites and hellish elixirs, managed to live for months without food nor water; feeding instead on their own regurgitated manure, matter and those of others. And although we highly suspect that the beastly scourge owes its uprise to such mixtures, infusions and sacrificial broths as was found, they have, beyond all doubt, contributed generously to the Wretch’s uncessant efforts.

We have yet to study, dissect and construe our findings, but we shan’t be so foolish still as to push our luck. There remains evidence to be retrieved, time to bide, and the devil would sooner have us flounder in impatience than rise prosperous.”

—Horst von Gutschmid

Indexium Lupus

Ponce, 1633

An old, ancient relic of flesh stirred beneath its earthen barrow, woken by the rues of disparity. A silent, breathing echo left its ruint maw, and beyond tarnished teeth bristled a mournful plea;

”Spare.. have mercy — One who walks in Gold!”

And the deathly corpse fell, as it has countless times begone, unto an unending slumber; torn by the blurred line of heavenly realms and unearthly chasms.

The smithsman struck upon his great anvil, yet fell afeared of the flames that came to rise;

“Tsss!”

A common Rubernite blacksmith, borne to lesser renown, spat and foamed at the mouth. Within his mind were sung the greater cries of death, hallowed chants of blood and drunks in war. Flesh would wilt and fall, skin and bone swept by horrid winds; but honour and virtuous deed alone prevailed, an obelisk to tell of their memoirs.

Thus begun the fierce preparations, that they may reign victorious by might and steel.

“Pox on it, we’re all dead! Dead, I tell ya! ‘less. . .

Oh, but arm yerselves with iron an’ hide, heave silver crosses blest with holy water at the dawn of night, an’ we’ll plough ‘em all to hell like some men do swine!” raves madly a local blacksmith within the warmth of his scorching forge; whereon darken steel was battered, and ashen flames lay strewn upon his vestment in a most unruly of manners; knowing with great certainty that the only way to ward off disease and plague, is to sow carnage and let seep unto Earth the blood of the ill.

Even God envied him of such ideas!

19 hours ago, SimplySeo said:

Perfect time of the year to post something genuinely dark, can’t say I appreciated reading it while I was checking the forums before bed, but holy **** its a damn good read nonetheless. Y’all should be writing novels.

7 hours ago, Aethling said:

This reads beautifully from start to finish. Very atmospheric, wonderful quality to the writing. Thoroughly impressed.     +1

We’re delighted to see how well this piece came to be received. It is always a great pleasure, for us both, that we enrich the worldly experience in such bleak times.

1 hour ago, ThatGuy_777 said:

My only question is if the Lyre ritual has a capped limit on how many times it can be performed? If only to ensure that players don’t just ignore the ramifications of eventual insanity like sticks in the mud.

We plan for the rituals to be profoundly limited in their range of use, and that they are only used in a manner that may be beneficial to a narrative or in favour of a good story. We’re more than willing to adjust it accordingly given any concerns, however, such that there would be an interval of two weeks between each use. I highly doubt you’ll see it appropriated in any irresponsible fashion, but we’re also willing to take half measures should it suffice.

5 minutes ago, TheAlphaMoist said:

can we please just forget ab all the past forms of lycanthropy the server has had, please and thank you

That’s our intention.

And Jentos did as much as I, credit the damn frenchman. 

1 hour ago, Gallic said:

I disagree, I feel like a new lore piece should try to fit into the pieces left of the one it’s replacing. There’s people who still remember lycanthropy IC and tell stories about it.

 

edit hopefully before you read this: I don’t mean to give the impression that I don’t like the piece, I think it’s grade A werewolf lore – my nitpicking is limited exclusively to my opinion that the “common legend” part should include some kind of reference to ‘ame lycanthropy legends

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.

19 minutes ago, Gallic said:

don’t forget the wood elves also have a story about werewolves, where the wolf mani cursed a mean hunter or something

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.

2 minutes ago, Jentos said:

So long did we toil on this accursed piece!

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.