PCSwift

best roleplay experience you've had on this server?

Teto forever

I joined this server relatively late age wise, around 16. I was dragged into it by @Keeningand Soviet_ Reindeer. I was sort of invited into a friend group as a newbie, and it was filled with some of the funniest people I ever met. Unfortunately, it didn't last very long because I thought they weren't cool, for whatever vain young reason I had. I think if I regret one thing the most on LoTC, it's leaving their friend group to join a group that only participated in PVP. Whatever faction or nation or even pvp group you play in, don't lose sight of the fact that LoTC should not be a place where you seek clout, or advance your agenda through ooc politics and whatnot. It should be a place where you can create stories with your close friends, and maybe even find new ones. My close friends have moved on, and maybe I should too. This is a different server now than it was before, with different people, different goals, and most of all, a community that has different values than me. For everyone who dislikes me, or has had poor interactions with me, I really, from the bottom of my heart, apologize. The person who you dislike, or think you dislike, is not who I really am. I sincerely wish everyone, I mean everyone who has shared this experience with me on LoTC, whether you were fighting against or with me, a wonderful life. This community has helped shaped me into the person I am today, and even if online you only see glimpses of that person, I am proud of who I am. Lattaaaa, see you on an alt maybe edit: i was thinking of all the good memories I had, and I thought if the people that read this weren't mentioned they'd feel bad. Thank you to my friends from Aegrothond Thank you to my friends from the Rustlers Thank you to my friends from Brawm's BBQ Thank you to my friends from The Sixth Synod and also that one time where hnor was popping off but didn't go anywhere that coulda been cool Those were some of my fondest memories from this server, seriously. I had a blast! I love you all, if I don't have you on other platforms please reach out to me

I would like to point out that this surprise attack diminish thing is insane and I never abused it but i will be blamed for it anyways

Asbjorn Carthaig was born upon a cold winter night, to a woman who had not planned for a son. His father was nowhere to be seen, but he was told he was an Oyashiman. She was a part of a rebellion, who had sought Adunic independence from their protectorate Norland. There was no nobility in their rebellion, it was struck down quickly and decisively by the ruling clan of Eriksson, leaving him alone without a mother. The tragedy of the Adunian-Norlandic rebellion wrought his childhood with misery. A short man enters New Lumbridge, his worn leather boots carrying him into an argument between the unholy dead of the dark, a Barrowlord and two Arch-liches spar verbally with each other. “Lumbridge remains open; a mortal agent of Xion where the clutches of death do not reach. The stake will unite us on the field, since it seems there is little to work with at the moment…you go your way, we go ours it seems.” The voices of the Barrowlord call to the Arch-Lich. Asbjorn steps forth, speaking to both the Barrowlord and Liches candidly, despite waltzing into the chapel not moments earlier. Any mortal man would quake in his boots, yet Asbjorn was steeled through a century of constant battle. “Do you not see the threat this wight poses? He stole our magic, bolstered, his power.” Two more voices join his first, his tone swelling “If we do not stop this Kvothe together, we will fall separately.” He now stares down the Lich known as Aratakrast “Mend yourselves, sign a treaty. If not for you, then all of mankind.” Cartref Mor, was Asbjorn’s home for a time. He arrived towards the end of the nation, where John Marsyr began to tutor him in the ways of the Adunian. He was taught of his people, and more of his blood and circumstance in this world. How Harren was to be redeemed, and given a second chance through his children, how there was yet to be justice for the sac of the Old Empire by the Owynists. He was given a wolf’s cloak and a bowie knife, the title of a Ranger. Then, Cartref Mor fell to Celia’nor because of Necromantic dealings. A man named Aurelion, they said, so Asbjorn swore to bring this man down, at the age of only sixteen. Aratakrast wafted a skeletal hand forward to those before him. “I will aid you if you call upon me, though if it stands to harm my image or relations then I will not. With each, I personally will ascertain.” He replied, he turned to Asbjorn. “You know his motive, merely his action. You cannot judge too quickly let you render yourself within a battle that is useless, to attrition thyself against more potent and actual threats.” He insisted. This comment infuriated Asbjorn, the blood-soaked veteran to no end. The Barrowlord speaks; “Easy for you to say. You need but wave a hand, forgive my oversimplification, and your student is safely returned. If we find the person sapping our students, we will destroy them for obvious reasons.” It grunted. Kalameet, Asbjorn’s disciple in Xion and shield-brother places a hand on his shoulder, the steel clanking against his pauldron. Asbjorn throws the hand off and presses forward, making himself known throughout the meeting upon the eve of an impending war ; “His action is a call to war.” The three voices swell louder, as the mortal Asbjorn’s anger grows. Where once there was a portal to Aegis, now lies an empty wall with the biting winter wind, which hears his frustration and picks up to a howl as if in agreeance. “You may cower and hide, but when Kvothe comes to your door, so shall my words be understood too late.” These words bring the crowd's and onlookers' whispers and murmurs, interest piquing in Asbjorn. Asbjorn finds himself upon the roads as a lone Ranger, helping the needy and defending the traveller still in the lands of Almaris. He happens upon a town, and in a tavern named the ‘Wayfarer’, where he meets the barkeep Rin, an Oyashi. Quickly, they discover that they are blood, his Father. Asbjorn grows close with him, and they share everything together, Asbjorn finds his many siblings, which he bonds with, and most importantly he finds someone named Handil. Handil had known Asbjorn in Cartref Mor, though the two never became close with each other. This was about to change, as Handil continued his teachings in the Adunian culture and history, further bolstering his knowledge. Aratakrast cackled to the words, a guttural chuckle of bone rumbled his form. “He clearly sees problem with Lumbridge, though I am not considered one with this. This student, however, is of my concern…but I am not quick to accuse. So too, have I faced similar problems. It is these very grounds which my own student was slain, a message. This could be eerily similar.” He insisted. “Mordring would not title him without reason, this is the main reason I would seek him out.” The Barrowlord echoes in return “I have agreed with Kasavurr at one point that we have… Rogue elements, Asbjorn among them.” He motioned to Asbjorn, with a metallic, ghastly hand. “Perhaps…they sapped Adelina in thought she too was a rogue element.” It contemplated. “Perhaps, clarification will resolve the issue at hand.” A fourth voice speaks up, a specter, with a calm, soothing voice “Then summon this Kasavurr to trial. Aratakrast counsels us well.” “This begs the question at last; why you seek word, Asbjorn? Why you strayed in the first place, akin to Kosmikos, who has then betrayed us and done nigh irreparable damage?” The Arch-lich peers now to Asbjorn. War broke out in Petra, fighting ran rampant in the streets, and it tore families apart, namely Asbjorn’s. Rin saw value in fighting with the seceeding party, while Asbjorn was a loyalist. The fighting was fierce, and Asbjorn’s mental state worse than ever before. He seperated from Handil in this time, as well as his entire family and friends. His beliefs, his righteousness was more important than being a simple man. It mattered to him so much, that he fought properly and rightly. The loyalists, with Asbjorn’s help, eventually won out in the end. And when the dust settled, he did not seek reconciliation with his Father, Brothers, and friends. No, he instead ventured to the realm of Karkosa, and joined himself with the Hexers to fight the evil menace within that wretched place. This ended poorly for Asbjorn, as when he returned after only months, decades passed in the realm of the Dark. His father was long dead, his friends, siblings, all of them were turned to dust in mere months for Asbjorn. Even Almaris was not recognizable, it was a waste. Black, disgusting creatures roamed the realm, and when he ventured to Petra, it was ruined. Nothing remained. The short man returns his attention unto the Barrowlord, as he takes a raspy shallow breath indicative of a lifetime of smoking. “I spake to the Pontiff, where we had discussed theology and the world.” He coughs violently, as a sharp pain is felt in his heart. Phlegm, and spit fly out his visor onto the chapel’s floor, until it erupts into hysterics. He doubles over, the coughing continuing as all attention is upon him. He tries to compose himself, as an unhealthy quality takes root in his voice “I thought to myself, upon Melandrach’s teachings and words, and found your Synod to be an incomplete, and stagnate view of Xion. I left, and gathered my own disciples, those who fight for God and Goodness.” Asbjorn was lost, yet his beliefs were the to the forefront of his mind. What is good what was good, was the people around him. The relationships he created with friends, and brothers, that was lost. He sought to honor their memory, and save the meek and feeble from Darkspawn, undead, and disgusting creatures that could not honor the sanctity of life. This was the period of his life where he became known as a hero, slayer of evil and most honorable to all. One fateful day, he received an offer from a noble of Hyspia, to become a mercenary, and teach their people the ways of war. He packed his things, and finally did he become a wanderer no more. In Hyspia, he learned of nobility, of knighthood, of oaths and the finer things in life. Then, he was called to war, the War of Veletzian agression. He stood steadfast, as a commander in the man armies of the Coalition, and played no small part in achieving many battle-field victories. Upon the eve of the final battle, he looked upon the ruined Winburgh, and there was a shift within him. Why would these rebels fight a losing battle? Is it not already foretold they will lose, and die here? Meaningless. In the face of a Barrowlord, Specter, Two Arch-liches, and dozen other undead and evil beings, did Asbjorn speak his truth. His mind knew there would be consequences for this, and the feeling in his heart worsened. He suddenly felt weak, even though his resolve had never been stronger. “Was it my teaching to butcher the Oyashimen?” The Barrowlord asked of him. “To vanish, and never argue for your views on scripture? You were like Kosmikos, like many. It was simply easier to leave these halls, to abandon the legacy of the Synod. To schism and complain, and to leave others to pick up the pieces.” The Barrowlord slithers closer to Asbjorn “It is the people of Canon who have set the world ablaze under Raguel…what it then that you agreed with their doctrine?” “God and Goodness?” The Arch-lich asks After the final battle of Winburgh, Asbjorn finally reclused himself from human society at large. Perhaps he should have died in that war, as the faces of the dead, the screaming of innocents haunted his mind. Already did the horrors of Karkosa broke him, yet, he rebuilt himself stronger. Everytime he was broken in life, did he rebuild and come back a better man, yet the screams of these poor Heartlanders finally did Asbjorn in. Each time one rebuilds, they lose themselves, until no longer would he be recognizable. It was this Asbjorn that walked into Celia’nor, and spotted three black, suspicious figures. This night was when Asbjorn heard of Xion from the herald of Strife themselves, Melandrach. He converted, and became the most powerful soldier of the Synod, a true Xionist at heart. Yet, it was not Asbjorn who converted to that cult. It was a different man, a man who had faced the horrors of the world and became worse for it. A man, who did not fight for true good and those around him, but a man who had sought to change the world, to fix the world and it’s injustice. Asbjorn laughs coldly in the face of these all powerful entities “It was Harrentzedek who taught me of Raguel’s servitude to God. He is no true Aengul, and therefore should be none of our concern. What mortal men do should not concern us, they were cursed with Iblees’ Sin.” He turns now to Aratakrast “The Creator-God, his image of the world is Good. It is from him we derive all that is good and correct, and righteous.” Again, do the onlookers cut in to the arguement, as all good will breaks down. Asbjorn’s heart feels as if it’s ripping apart, yet he still does not backdown, just as those Veletzers he admonished long ago. “You so clearly advertise your stray from this cause here? Within these halls?” “I have witnessed Asbjorn’s waywardness firsthand.” “You tried to have my student murdered.” “You have committed crimes, for which, in any society, you would be struck down.” “You will abandon this tryst, rejoin the Synod.” Asbjorn began in Xion at first, to save descendant kind from their ensalvers the Aenguls. Melandrach, his mentor, had drilled this idea into him that they are saviors of mankind, they are the true good in this world of evil. It was them who Asbjorn followed, not the Synod or Xion itself, rather this one Wight with seemingly unlimited foresight and intelligence. Asbjorn sought to follow their laws, and ensure that the Mundane would be saved. Yet, when the Sixth Synod strayed slightly from Melandrach’s ways when they turned to rest, Asbjorn could not process this. So wrought with the powers he held, made so ill from magic mortal men should not wield, did he violently cast off the shackles of the Synod and became his own entity. He found followers, eager to listen and destroy evil where it layed. It is this Asbjorn, a mentally scarred, sick, old man that brought himself to speak before the prime evils of the land, to convince them finally that Evil has reared it’s ugly head. To convince them that their inaction leads to the deaths of countless mundane, descendants. Yet, Asbjorn was rejected for his dissident. In trying to stay with Melandrach’s teachings, the Synod moved on and changed. And, when he was asked to bend the knee like Veletz did all those years ago, he did not. He stood fast. He used his mastery of the void to try and teleport to safety, but a new Herald of Xion stopped his action. He teleported through them as suddenly the pain his chest worsened. He fell to the floor of New Lumbridge, as he uncontrollably hacked. He struggled for air as a sword was put to the front and back of his neck. An onlooker thought to take his helmet off, and revealed what had ailed Asbjorn. He was an old, gaunt, skeletal man with bloodshot eyes, unable to take a breath. He looked about at what surrounded him, not his wife and children, not his siblings, not his friends. No, what surrounded him was Evil, ungodly entities of destruction and chaos. Even as he struggled for breath, they still tried to sap him of his powers, until finally, he fell limp before the congregation. Letters are sent out to the following individuals, addressed to them individually. They read "I'm sorry." And are signed by Asbjorn Carthaig. @Dantory @christman @Fleeperpriest @Castelleo @bumblefina @uarehere @xo31

Asbjorn weeps, for his enemies reddit post

Please answer honestly

no but please i want to be a scion cursed child herald seer and an alchemist! why!! 💢

20th of Malin's Welcome, 215 The day was dragging long and still Asbjorn had no food for dinner. The singular arrow he holds within his hand carries salt, from sweat long dried up. The bow within his left, is no better, having been ground down from his black, arcanic metal hand. Despite his aching legs, he still stays slightly crouched down, directly behind a brush, and within his sight a doe, big enough for to feed him for a few weeks should he ration it out properly. She stands within a clearing of the Southern forests, the golden evening light touching and warming the deer’s soft coat. His breathing is controlled, slowed, and soft as if this exact moment were rehearsed a thousand times, as he then nocks his arrow. The string is pulled, tension building within the sinew as his eyes trained upon the poor doe. At once, the arrow is loosed, finding its mark within her neck. The doe spasms as it suddenly feels intense pain, kicking and rearing until it falls over onto it’s side, as it tries to cling to life. She tries to take breath, after breath, after breatj. Until, she simply draws air no longer. Asbjorn makes his way over to his quarry, to which he kneels in front of. He shuts his eyes, and signs the cross of Lorraine as he mumbles a prayer to God in thanks. He wastes no time, and begins to process the animal. With the snap of his fingers, an iron skillet appears in the grass, then two soft, dry pieces of rope. A strike of flint later, and a fire is lit. Asbjorn begins to cook each piece of venison, and each time they finish they glow with a soft white light until they disappear from existence. The sun sets now, the clearing’s canopy now letting in a soft, white moonlit column of light. The temperature dropped, something Asbjorn hadn’t even noticed with his continued work cooking his venison. The fire dies down, as he places the last piece of meat into his skillet, as he takes notice of the moonlight from above. He notices the sky, and it’s stars, the bleak black and speckles of light contrasting with each other. It was so beautiful and was seldom left underappreciated in his mind. Then, his attention is dragged to the moon. How it hangs high and large, above the other stars, yet within the sea of stars it still looks so alone. An exhale is released, and a smile forms on his face, looking as if it didn’t belong there. His attention is brought back to his skillet, with his venison. Just as soon as it came, his smile left, and his attention returned to what he was doing. His mind, however, still was hung upon the sky, and it’s wonder. A hand reaches to grab the skillet, and he jumps back with a mumble of pain. He looks down at his palm, as a red blister begins to form from where he had touched the skillet. With a wave of his hand, the fire disappears, leaving the skillet upon the grass. He opts to sit next to the skillet and gaze back up at the night sky, the moon specifically. “I used to be the best Blade in the land, you know.” He speaks warmly, turning to his right. There was simply nobody there, to give him a response. He knew there was nobody there to respond, but, it felt like something you say, something you should share with ones close to you in moments like these. He looks back to the moon, silent. He takes his piece of venison from his skillet, and with the snap of his fingers, there appears a plate, a silver fork, and a knife. He eats in silence, and by his lonesome.

nah this shit is stupid asf nerf scion again i cant let pcswift have fun

scions are so broken nerf it again guys

People vilify you and call you bad at roleplay. Your response?

A high elf grins, returning home from the Heartlands "Who knew a number of seven could cause so much chaos."

wish we could see who voted what anyone who wants a big map like aevos is MORON

Clegg, Dantory, Mikhail, Kaldwin Or, Malta, Larry, Budaq, Paladin, Mickael