Sorcerio

Several voices cried with joy. Their prayers had been answered!

Something whispered deep, deep beneath frozen the earth — its very breath deadening the single willowing flame which ever-so clung to life. A single scion, clad in onyx armor, rose to meet the looming shadow, bearing word of the present clash of flame and gold. They then decreed to the scribe, a lingering breath of cold pouring out at its very words: "To any on either side who would wish to make merit for themselves, come; bring me the head of this feline creature, and I will see both you and your offspring held to my blessing... Great is the reward for he who completes this task." And so the tongues proclaimed, the message finding itself at the doorsteps of both parties, sealed by a sodden sigil of wax. No further information was given.

Bruh it's literally been one day

From the depths of the crypt, harsh words were uttered in tongues beneath the stone: A clash of flame and gold again: No forge will e'er refine, These wayward men sworn to blood, Who acquiesce to the divine.

Accepted.

Rite of Hindering (Non-Combative | T1) A cantrip heirloom of occult nature, by which the mystic may draw the veil around an object to grant it a greater affinity for the spectral plane, plunging it within the Elysian wastes. Objects may be hindered to grant them a mere aesthetic gleam, which would flicker ever-so faintly like some mirthless, dying flame. These objects, when worn, would be capable of attracting near remnant ectoplasm and maintain it — particularly that of will o’ wisps and phantoms, which may be drawn to the hindered item like moths to a light. Rite of Scavenging (Non-Combative | T1) Amidst the exigencies of occult rites lie the ability of mystics to draw forth the esoteric, spiritual essence of mortality, and store it within menhir to power their profane sacraments. It was in fact the First Synod, in their ambitions of immortality, who came upon the first menhir - imploring its unearthly nature to retain the souls of the dead within itself. Rite of Orthostat (Non-Combative | T1) Damaging something as precious as the veil between realms is a great feat, requiring a grand amount of strain and with clear intent. To perform this, an intense concentration of energy must be provided to a menhir — the soul-energy within it slowly dampening the veil more and more as the realm of the dead slowly pours into that of the living. Citations Sorcerio — Writer [✓] Mysticism Lore

Since you are banned I, on behalf of the LOTC Story Team, will be assuming the grandfather for the lore. If you believe this is a mistake, feel free to contact me or an administrator and we will be able to tell you that you are wrong. Have a lovely day.

* Please be aware that none of this is public in-character knowledge! * “How long I’ve dreamt for freedom long-last. This oath assumed, now fulfill the task…” — Whispers in Stone The sun had long-departed, its fiery glare smothered by the dark cloud as it now retreated behind the far hills — as the vale of Almaris was plunged once more into the depths of night. Water slowly fell from the cavern ceiling, cast down upon the sodden stone. Each drop sounded like a beat from a hollow drum as it made contact with the earth, ringing in ominous procession. Yet all else was silent, not a single soul stirred. For so long, naught but rumor and whisper had made its way to those antiquitous halls. But now, in the depths of shadow, something stirred that was never meant to rise in the world of living men. Mist wreathed itself along the stone and earth, slithering like a pale snake which engulfed the cold, hard floor of the crypt. Whispers, shadows in the dark — muttering in the night: “Yldu’th… ghunulk.” What lurks in shadow can no longer hide. “Rhnagôr— zu’fryct?” By what sanctuary can this dark abide? “Umgî dishul.. d’wakat.” They questioned one another in tongue, “Ashi’.. eg’u...” Awaiting he who was the one.

I never got to know you all too well, but I've heard some pretty good things. You seem like a cool guy, and I'm glad to have met you. Take it easy out there, and good luck wherever you find yourself next!

Within the depths of their sodden crypt, a spirit seethed. No blood spilt would amass to undo what had been done — yet still, vengeance would be satisfied.

* Please be aware that none of this is public in-character knowledge! * Now, deep below the earth he lay — gazing to the fleeting gleam of pale moonlight which crept along the hewn stone, illuminating the sodden earth with a glistening reflection. He felt it slip from his hands, no matter how resolved his hold — like grains of sand which escapes just within the cracks between his fingers, memories carried away by the ruthless current of time. That was all he could do now, but wait in silence, dreading each thought which pressed to the forefront of his mind, no matter how fond or dear it was held to his heart. In those final moments of sanity, as he felt the last of his wakefulness depart from him, he let forth a final verse in desperate croak; “To die of immolation, is there a worse fate? My clouded soul, the dark deign’st abdicate. I’d set upon a path, a road of perdition; Seen as just war, believed a holy mission. Yet now I lie here, my flesh heavy like stone, The cold is biting, chills creep to my bone.” “No words of joy or mirth would e’er consol me, Had I but thought, but reflected — if only. Yet this was my purgatory, a fate I had chose. Better a body burned, than flesh be froze? So now I lie here, deep and cold beneath the earth. By cold hard stone, that flesh be reversed.” Emptiness, bitter and cold. That was all he could strain to recount. Then there was silence. Then there was stone.

Even tastier 🤤😍

Fantastic, and inspiring! Amazing work!