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About Toffee

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    Illynora Sylvaeri
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  1. Toffee

    Monkey See, Monkey Do

    Profession systems kill RP. I’ve seen it across multiple servers, and every single time, it turns the server in a direction that is more MMORPG than actual roleplay. Because at the end of the day, MCRP is supposed to be collaborative literature as opposed to using mechanics to block (heh) people into a specific realm of expertise. Professions shouldn’t be automated or locked into a system, because then instead of interacting with people for the enjoyment of roleplay, it turns into a thankless cycle where grinders play the server like a single player game, and teachers are NPCs to get them to the next level.
  2. Toffee

    January Community Newsletter

    I love this idea, a perfect way to keep the playerbase up to date on what is happening, and a good step in the direction of transparency. Thanks for the shout out! ❤️
  3. Finding a cove abundant with green woods the Almenodrim therefore landed, and commenced a great labour; together they raised the walls of a new citadel in the image of their homeland in Almenor, and named it ‘Aegrothond’. - The Tale of Dagnir, Book I in the Lay of Aegrothond Among the tales of sorrow and ruin which come to us out of the elsewise forgotten years before the rising of the Moon, there are yet some in which the eldritch dolour is lifted, and a light is shown to endure even beneath its gloaming shadow. Of these histories perhaps the most stark is that of Sylvaen, and of the Almenodrim who were his progeny. House Sylvaeri has a rich history, threaded with culture and tradition that has evolved since the days of Malin himself. Deeds of the family are recorded in the Lay of Aegrothond, detailing the swell in Almenorean culture ever since the First Ages. Ancient history commands the present day, with beloved customs honouring famed heroes and fireside tales that have been told for generations. As said in the Tale of Dagnir, They sailed with the wind, and followed the seven stars of the Mariner, which denote the westwardly direction and are beloved of all seafaring Elves. As such, a traditional sail race was established in 1326 by the Almenodrim of Aegis, to commemorate the founding of their second citadel in the era of Malin. Elves set off west— no matter which constellations glimmer in the night sky— steering a small vessel around a circular course. Whomever passes the designated point first is declared the winner. This tradition remains in modern day Aegrothond, despite the citizenry being comprised of more than House Sylvaeri and its followers. Sail races take place at all times of the year, particularly featuring in festivals held in honour of the Almenodrim of yore. An ancient tapestry originally in the halls of old Almenor, before it burned. Aegrothond in Atlas is an island nation, though the citadels of old have always resided close to the sea. As such, water based customs have existed for generations. In addition to the sailboat races, it is a tradition to scatter gemstones in the shallows and have elves dive for them, with the individual collecting the most coming in first place. This custom began in the late 1300’s in recognition of House Sylvaeri’s prowess in the fields of smithing and gemcraft. In these days of the world, where mali’ame culture is prevalent in the modern citadel, this ancient tradition has merged with the elnarnsae’ame (Aspectist) rites for Hamatsa. Now, elves dive to collect gemstones and seashells, with the latter being given as offerings to the Dolphin of Mercy. An artist’s depiction of Edrahil, second son of Sylvaen. Well-armed and armoured they were, for each among them bore a sword and a spear, and a shield rendered by the highest arts of the Almenodrim. Upon their faces were fearsome mask-helms of gilded steel… - The Tale of Edrahil and the Dragon The Almenodrim were not a bloodthirsty people in the days of Malin, and nor are their descendants in Atlas. While those in Aegrothond do not lust for war, most are proficient with blade and spear as those of the Company of Edrahil were all those centuries ago. In celebration of that, martial events such as armed duels and spear throwing occur on festival days. Many wear gilded helms in honour of the heroes that came before them, while others opt for the armour forged by Fëanor Sylvaeri in 1696. Due to wood elven influence in modern Aegrothond, many also partake in archery competitions. Targets are set bobbing in the waters of the cove, to be shot from shore or moving vessels. While cliff jumping serves no celebratory purpose, it has certainly become a custom in the modern era. Any who visit the lofty halls of Aegrothond will see elves jumping from balconies and cliffs frequently, to dive safely into the waters far below. Because this was already a common practice, worshiping Hamatsa came easily to the Aspectists of Aegrothond. Although Sonnos is the patron mani of House Sylvaeri (and by extension, the Principality), Hamatsa comes in close second. There are frequent rites performed by adherents of elnarnsae’ame to the Dolphin of Mercy, and in return, he watches over the healers of the isle and those who set out into the surrounding seas. Malin’s Eve is a celebration that occurs once every half century or so, recognised by elves the land over. In Aegrothond, it is incorporated into what is otherwise known as Krugsmas by other Descendants— involving gift giving and general cheer. A great feast is had, with signature Almenorean refreshments such as Giselin Tonic served in abundance. The Summer Solstice is a time widely celebrated as one of vivid colour and vibrancy. It is because of this that the weeks surrounding the Solstice are known as Festival Season to those of Aegrothond. Events celebrating Edrahil and his Company, the founding of ancient Aegrothond, and the deeds of fabled heroes are hosted during this season. On the night of the Solstice itself, a light show takes place with firework rockets; a large bonfire also features, where a roast is prepared. Elves move through the mists, likely on their way to a Reforging. Many were lost thusly, for they retreated only rarely, and did not hold with cowardice. Renarion, and Muindir his twin perished beneath the blades of the Undead, as did Serinwe, and countless others when Almenor itself was burned. - The Tale of Dagnir Grief and loss is unavoidable for all Descendants, even those such as the mali who were blessed with longevity. Cemeteries do not often feature in Elven nations, and such is true in Atlasian Aegrothond. The Almenodrim of yore burned their dead, as they do in the modern era, though there is a custom that serves as a communal remembrance for those who have been lost. A Reforging takes place in the depths of winter, when the forge must burn red hot in order for metal to smelt. Each ingot represents the life of a loved one, to be forged anew into something for them to be remembered by. To this day, House Sylvaeri’s vaults are filled with relics made during a Reforging, with one of the most famous being a replica of the Dawnbreaker’s anchor, made in remembrance of Eleron Sylvaeri in the very flames that ended his life. It is now used to moor the Red Dawn in the Bay of Aegrothond.
  4. Toffee

    [Accepted] Nectorist's Forum Moderator Application

    Please add this man, he’s very level headed and knows what he’s doing. +1
  5. Love love love, very in depth and flavourful. +1
  6. Toffee

    Salt in the Sea - Tokoko Refugee Camp

    Illynora thought of Suzuhito’s delicious cakes, and smiled.
  7. No. In order to retain a more or less “historical” fantasy setting, no medicinal practices after 1880 should be used. Of course, because this is a fantasy setting, there is always going to need to be adjustments (for example, the first syringe used for an intravenous injection was invented in 1853, but injections/needles should not be a thing that exists on LotC.) I’m not promoting Elizabethan era healing where they believed that the four humours were responsible for every physical affliction, but nor am I suggesting we skip straight to the 20th century and be able to perform complex internal surgery. Because of the long lifespan of elves, and the fact that wood elves/druids in particular have an affinity for healing, it makes sense that throughout their centuries of life they would have discovered what infection is (and therefore done things to counteract it such as washing their hands and using antibacterial herbs such as thyme). That knowledge likely would have been passed on to the other races. The tools of the trade across most races would be the simple scalpel, needle and thread, scissors, bone saw, bandages— all of which have been used as early as Egyptian times. Medicine in the Roman Empire was incredibly advanced for the time period, before mysteriously backtracking through the Dark Ages, and then by the late 19th century death-by-infection rates had dropped to 15% because of increased cleanliness in surgery. Humans, for their short lives, would likely be responsible for the advancement of certain medicinal tools through primeval forays into the realms of scientia. A simple rubber and glass pipette (invented by Louis Pasteur in the 19th century) would have likely come from human ingenuity; same with forceps. Where orcish/elven healing differs from dwarven/human healing is that the former would likely use more natural practices such as lamb’s ear leaf instead of cloth bandages, and a reliance on herbal medicines. The latter, on the other hand, would likely use alcohol as a means of sterilisation, as well as cloth bandages and tinctures instead of tonics. And none of the races, in the current age of LotC, should be able to perform internal surgery on organs. TLDR: Healing on LotC should hover in a time where knowledge of infection and basic mundane healing practices is common, but where advanced internal surgery does not exist. Removing an arrow from a wound should be the extent of any “surgery”. PS: Alchemical potions? Not in my premium mineman roleplay
  8. Toffee

    [Mani Submission] Kholibrii - The Hummingbird Mani

    Well written, I think having a more “passive” mani could be interesting. A very colourful idea!
  9. A large crab storms Aegrothond, circa 1695. Day had dawned bright over the eastern sea, casting dappled patterns across a swelling congregation. Illynora approached on cat silent feet, the butt of her elderwood staff thudding against soft soil, and ran a swift look over those gathered. Too many to count, though all familiar faces… save for two. One was possessed of features eerily similar to those of the male elf she stood beside; Miklaeil, bronze skin made darker from his time in the pleasant island weather. The other was of mali’ame descent, that much was certain, though Illynora had never seen the elfess before. Talks were pleasant, laughs exchanged, and the day seemed as though it would be once again comfortably mild. Until a violent tremor shook the isle of mists right down to its very foundations. Some fell to their knees, many cried out-- from above, a helmeted mali’fenn crashed through dense foliage and landed harshly against the earth with a sickening crack. As Feanor and Delmira hurried from their home, Illynora scampered up a rocky incline to stand atop a terracotta tiled roof overlooking the shuddering cove. There was naught to be seen between the roiling whitecaps save for shards of dislodged driftwood. As she was about to climb down to solid ground, another force struck the island and Illynora was sent down onto her knees, hard. Pain exploded through them, light splintering in her vision as she slid down to loamy soil. “To higher ground! Rally at the hall!” Belestram’s voice was a boom across the eastern arm of the island, all within earshot jumping to do as was bid. The golden haired elf held an arm to the prone mali’fenn, helping him to stand and then further supporting him as they hobbled up towards the great hall. No sooner had they arrived in the cavernous room, already bustling with elves, did Feanor’s voice ring out. “Giant hermit crab, north bay!” Sure enough, as mali flocked to the stone balustrades, a large crab could be seen storming the northern side of the isles. Water churned in its wake, turning the sea into a pale froth, but Illynora did not linger to see anything else as she hurried to the injured snow elf’s side. Her healer’s hands made quick work of tending to him, a steady concentration serving to drown out all else. Some distance away, Belestram drew his runeblade with a metallic rasp. Runic lettering blazed to life, a similar fire shining in his grey eyes as he stared unflinchingly across at the giant crab. “To arms! The crustacean menace has arrived!” Longbows were snatched up from against stone pillars, spears were leveled, swords bared. All seemed prepared to storm the beach and put an end to the encroaching hermit crab… but another beast performed their task with brutal efficiency. A wyvern, black as death, swept in from the heavens and decapitated the crustacean with one snap of its vicious jaws. It twitched and seized for long moments, while the elves stood with bated breath, before falling lifeless into the ocean. None moved as the deafening crash of waves reached them, completely transfixed as they watched the wyvern take flight. Some seemed relieved, as though the beast might fly away… but the hunters of their group watched the horizon with a keen eye. The creature circled like a monstrous bird of prey, before alighting on the mast of the Red Dawn and loosing a terrible, piercing scream. Blood dripped from its maw, barely visible against the backdrop of ink-black scales. Cries of “To the shore!” sounded out, and soon enough there were ten elves on the beach, preparing to face off against the serpentine creature. Ten remained above, lining the cliff faces-- bows and spears trained on its heavily scaled back. As the order to fire burst from Elros’ lips, the wyvern abruptly lashed its whiplike tail to those stood guard on the beach. Spikes rattled and disconnected from its flesh, and were sent spearing towards raised kite shields and masterfully forged plate armour where they were cast harmlessly away. From the walls, and the sandy shore, arrows pelted the ebony beast. One struck it directly through the eye (rousing a victorious cry from its source: Cedlas), while the others skittered harmlessly across its armoured scales and fell into the tumultuous sea. Just as Leyne drew her arm back and launched a spear straight for the wyvern’s other eye, it reared up, and an ear-splitting clap rent the humid air as it launched itself upwards with the speed of a lightning bolt. Those below were sent stumbling back with the sudden gust of air, and were unable to steady themselves before the creature came barreling down at them like an oversized hawk. Four arrows managed to pierce the flimsy membrane of its wings, three (Nenar, Turge, and Feanor) having come from above, while Elros was the first of those on shore to act. The others were still stumbling to their feet, reaching for fallen weapons, when the beast darted forwards to bite at Cedlas. He dropped his mace in a panic, diving for the safety of the golden sands, and Belestram made his move. Illynora watched from above, having sent Aesilnoth off with a splinted leg, as Belestram brought Gimil-Zagar down in a singular, sweeping motion. Sand sprayed up beneath his boots as the elf swiveled, as nimble and fluid as a dancer, and brought the runeblade down on the wyvern’s outstretched neck. To no effect, save for a few dislodged scales. Time seemed to slow as the beast turned its attention to her husband, screams of “Belestram!” and “Father!” echoing in her ears. It lunged, teeth closing down on his right arm, and pulled away in a shower of gore and blood. A keening wail broke out across the bay, but Belestram made no noise at all as he collapsed against the white sand and stained it crimson. Focused entirely on consuming its ill gotten meal, the wyvern did not notice as Nenar took her chance and leaped from a nearby cliff face onto its waiting right wing. Using her daggers as picks, she stabbed them into muscle and dragged her way up its back, but before she could lodge steel deep beneath its armour-like scales… the creature bucked, throwing her halfway across the cove. She was nary more than a flash of red hair as she flew, striking the hull of the Red Dawn and crumpling beneath the waves. Elora dove after her, strong kicks taking her beneath the water, while a fresh volley of arrows rained down on the writhing, furious wyvern. It loosed a roar of defiance as some arrows struck true, and a mace bounced harmlessly from its scaled hide. While something inside of Illynora howled for her to leap down to the beach and save her husband, her healer’s heart told her to be calm, and prepare the great hall for an influx of injured elves when all was said and done. Belestram would want her to protect the collective over the individual, even if that individual was her lifemate. So, with only a glance over the balcony to see that Exa’vier was staunching Belestram’s stump of an arm and moving him to higher ground, Illynora gathered up the healers and set to work. For the past month, Nikai’s life had been absorbed by one thing, infinitely more precious than her life or anything else in their imperfect world-- the perfect, cherished Saeros. Her babe did not squall as others did, and was sleeping peacefully as a blood curdling shriek ripped through the otherwise peaceful isle of Aegrothond. It was instinct to leap to her feet and seize a sword, before charging out into the warm morning air. Saltwater sprayed up against cliff edges, roused by the wings of… “Aspects…” she breathed, as a thrice damned wyvern lashed its spiked tail across a crowd assembled on the beach. Among them: Miklaeil. Running past arched windows, quick as a stream down a mountainside, Nikai caught flashes of the action occurring below. A flurry of attacks did nothing to the massive beast, and she felt a horrified scream wedge itself in her throat as a blonde haired elf was taken by the torso in its gaping, long-fanged mouth. Blood sprayed, scarlet splattering the sand when its teeth sunk deeper. It was only when Rinae struck the wyvern’s side with a warhammer, dealing a bone shattering blow, did its jaw unlock. The now-dead elf was flung into the sea, showering blood, though Nikai could not make out their identity on account of their mangled features. Her feet slid across loamy soil and uneven shards of stone, breakneck pace taking her at last to the gates. She had just swung herself through when an unfamiliar mali’fenn was sent smashing against a nearby cliff with the ease of a ragdoll. Kharris and several others were still firing from above, and Nikai didn’t have time to see if the armoured figure was badly injured. Miklaeil was on the other side of the beach, she just had to reach him, make sure that he was safe… Cedlas, for all his faults, was undeniably a warrior. He charged forwards like a whirlwind in black plate, before bringing his blade down in a graceful arc exactly where his father’s blow had landed earlier. It cleaved through sinew and bone like a knife through butter, leaving the wyvern’s head upon shore like a grotesque trophy. Aegrothond’s cerulean cove was stained crimson, but a collective sigh of relief blew through the ancient trees and settled in Nikai’s heart. Relief soon turned to dread in her stomach. Mali who had been up in the great hall were now on the beach, Lady Illynora crouched over the pale and bleeding form of her husband. Those elves were unarmoured, much like herself, unable to fend off any attacks… let alone the dozens of three foot long spikes that exploded from the wyvern in its dying moments. Screams split the air, Nikai’s world had gone red… Miklaeil had a spike speared directly through his shoulder while Belestram… Belestram was dying. His blood ran thick and fast over Illynora’s hands as they fluttered uselessly around the spike lodged in his chest. Behind her, on a spit of red-stained beach, Elora’s thigh had a spike blasted through it. Nenar lay unconscious and unresponsive beside her, both soaking wet and chilled to the bone, but Illynora had not an ounce of concern to spare as Belestram’s breath rattled in his throat. Dangerously shallow. Tanager’s corpse washed ashore, borne on the waves formed by the wyvern’s death throes. The creature lay still, now, floating in the chum bucket water. Gulls soared overhead, insect-song resumed, and Belestram’s lifeblood continued to seep through Illynora’s desperate fingers.
  10. Toffee

    elnarnsae'ame - The Elven Pantheon

    At a cliff’s edge with the clinic at her back, Illynora stood vigil over the wide expanse of cerulean stretching out to the horizon. With the sounds of splashing and laughter echoing from the cove, as elves leapt off the cliffs and into the ocean, she knew that worshiping Hamatsa would come naturally to those of Aegrothond. With the dolphin mani’s prayer on her lips, the healer turned away to continue her preparation of herbal salves.
  11. Toffee

    Atlas Anniversary Art & Writing Contest

    Blue ink, bronze, and blood - A Battle on the Pridelands In the deep south, autumnal flurries blew in from the Yatl as early as Sun’s Smile. Of course, being the year 1675, there was no encroaching, insidious cold— simply mundane snow drifts blanketing the alpine scape in white. The cold sting of Stormsinger ice was twenty years off yet, for this was an Atlas not yet completely torn by war. Far north, where the Pridelands rolled for miles, walked a wood elf. No snow would touch those golden grasslands for months, and even in the dead of the Deep Cold, a light dusting was all that could be expected. The wood elf was alone, her only companions cricket song and a dry, afternoon heat. It was the kind of heat that had clothes sticking to skin, so she had removed her green sash in favour of wearing only a petal pink gown that fluttered about her ankles and snagged on the coarse grass. Aside from brittle bushes and the occasional baobab tree, to the untrained eye, the Pridelands would seem devoid of life. Illynora knew otherwise. A brown snake slithered over an outcropping of rock, serpentine body glistening in the light of a sun that sank further and further towards the western horizon. Illynora was an herbalist, not a snake-whisperer, so she gave the creature a wide berth as she padded towards a flower that was black as night. She had healed snake bites many a time and shuddered to think of the dozens she had yet to find an antidote for. The dark flowers (Black Sun’s Spinster) grew in abundance where the Pridelands and the Bolemounds met, peeking out through cracks in the hard-packed earth. Illynora tore them out by the roots and stored them in an apothecary’s satchel hanging at her hip. The sun was a hot brand against her back. While many herbs could be found in the dry, rolling plains, there was a desert waiting just beyond the mesa. Illynora could feel the heat sapping energy from her limbs, but still, she progressed; red dust rising in a cloud beneath her trudging, eastward footsteps. Caras Eldar lay far behind, the clinic where she was head healer quiet for the first time in many weeks. An opportunity to relax and be away from the city’s bustle was appreciated, even if the oppressive heat plugged its way down Illynora’s throat and dust settled in her lungs. Night was fast approaching. Cresting a clay hill, she watched as the setting sun cast errant shards of light through what was the most beautiful and horrific thing she had ever seen. Glass, were the leaves of that lone tree. Crystalline, magnificent… deadly. The city had been abuzz for days with rumours of the September Prince’s soul trees and their translucent, glass-like foliage. Illynora knew almost immediately what it was, gaze transfixed on it as twilight settled over the Pridelands. It had to be destroyed. By her reckoning, Khel’Seth was the closest settlement— she would travel there, hopefully making it before the moon had fully risen, and send a letter back to Caras Eldar. A party arrived at daybreak. They appeared over a hill one by one: Kairn, Mae’lyrra, Belestram, Kaz, Feanor, and three others that Illynora did not immediately recognise. Next to them, the soul tree seemed less a thing of eldritch beauty, and more a target in need of annihilation. Kairn had just begun to douse the tree’s roots with alcohol when an inhuman shriek split the air. All froze. And to the mounting horror of the elves… a black speck on the horizon began to take shape. The gryphon would have been majestic, were it not for the razor-sharp talons and viciously curved beak. Twenty years later, Illynora could still see flickers of the battle in her mind’s eye. Ithelanen and Sylvaeri fought side by side (although, Mae’lyrra would not receive the ilmyumier for another half decade). Where Belestram and Feanor moved with refined elegance, the Ithelanens were possessed of a wild, untameable grace as they slashed and stabbed at the feathered beast. It was a dance of death for them, ferocious and feral— but as Illynora crouched at the soul tree’s base, she found herself mesmerised. Blue ink, bronze, and blood was the outcome of that battle. Sitting before a roaring fire, the Illynora of 1698 leafed through a journal whose pages were yellowing. Illynora Aureon was embossed inside the cover, though the mali’ame now wore the crimson garb of House Sylvaeri. Once the gryphon was defeated, a tree lord had emerged from the soul tree as a secondary line of defence for the September Prince. Her slender fingers, bearing the teal Mark of the Mother, traced slowly over faded words that she had penned over twenty years before. Belestram cut the Tree Lord down with his flaming runic blade— he looked like some fabled god of war, beautiful and wreathed in fire. He moved with such grace, even as the tree went up in flames behind him. And of all the people present… he seemed to be the only one who also seemed saddened at the death of something that was once living. If the present day Illynora had existed in 1675, she would not have cowered beneath those crystalline leaves. She would not have had time to notice how blood decorated Kairn’s striking features like macabre warpaint. How Mae’s attention always seemed to find its way to Feanor. With the tree lord dead and September’s soul tree burning, Kaz turned his eyes up to where a pillar of smoke stained the morning sky. Firelight limned the planes of his face, eternally youthful and yet battle hardened. He lead the way back to Caras Eldar, shoulder to shoulder with the mali whose hand he would remove in the very near future, on the floor of a bloodsoaked throneroom where they had both served for years. Behind them, the Pridelands were black with smoke. An omen of what was to come.
  12. The Blue Forest, by Cassiopeia Art Whispers are strange things. They begin as small expulsions of breath in misty air, that are somehow cast as far and wide as a fisherman’s net by the time the week is up. Somesuch whispers flit across the continent of Atlas, skittering across city flagstones and weaving their way through ageless meadows. Aegrothond, the whispers echo, tumbling from lips not hushed from secrecy, but rather an unwillingness to wear their hearts on their sleeves. The soughing of words between buildings and ancient trees speak of a far-off island, and its enigmatic denizens. Elven, that much is certain, of all varieties provided they are pure of heart and clear of mind. No shackles gird their feet, no crowns of metal sting their brows. A host of free elves, resting within a bastion of peace and untarnished Elvendom. An eastern tower, limned with the light of dawn. Those who listen closely to the soft-spoken conversations will become familiar with a story. That Aegrothond, this home of free elves, was founded by House Sylvaeri, following the banishment of its Lord from the city of Caras Eldar in 1679. It had originally been a noble seat for that venerable Elven house, until the Dominion of Malin itself began to crumble. The Dominion’s slow stagnation has left many elves with little option-- they have no desire to gain residency in the successor state, and fear the southern lands which have been largely dominated by humans for decades. And so whispers continue to dart this way and that, permeating the ears and minds of purehearted elves. Personal accounts join the fray, solidifying what was once vague murmurings into forge-hardened truths: the crimson banner of House Silma, depicting Malin’s brightly burning flame, flies strong and true beside that of Sylvaeri. Aureon ilmyumier can be seen adorning the arms of many residents, including the Lady of Aegrothond herself. Joy, peace, and prosperity abound, with laughter and music threaded through the pealing of Caras Eldar’s goliath bronze bell. The great hall. It is said that the elves of Aegrothond find you, as opposed to the reverse. That her shores are barred to all who mean to bring war and bloodshed. Listen to the whispers, children of Malin, and you may find the halls of Aegrothond rising up on a dusk darkened horizon in your future.
  13. “Everyone” will not be happy with that. Considering large nations already twist and manipulate current CBs in order to target and stomp on smaller playerbases, frankly there needs to be more ways to counter and stop that. A lot of the new CBs either directly benefit large nations (e.g. Subjugation), while others are able to be loopholed (e.g. trade based CBs, enemy of the nation, stolen relics). Therefore if the restrictions are loosened, and “big nations get insane amounts of mina quickly anyway”... that’s basically a free pass. Offensive war benefits large groups in the short term, because they’re able to get clicky clicks and bragging rights of having conquered swathes of land. But in the long term, no groups benefit as it either splinters existing playerbases into smaller ones, or creates toxicity between two (or more) factions. Defensive, justified war should be the way to go, so that large nations can’t just scrape together some questionable CBs and attack whichever smaller playerbase they please. Alot of these CBs need to be worded in a way that makes them watertight and completely impervious to “alternative interpretation”.
  14. Toffee

    The Faith of Rosenyr

    As one of the key pillars of society, faith is very important to those within the Principality of Rosenyr. Orateurs are held in high regard as founts of wisdom, and interpreters of the enigmatic and ever growing pantheon of Croyance. Within the faith there are varying ranks, with the Orateur Principal (or Prime Speaker) serving as the ultimate mouthpiece for the gods. Orateur Principal - Prime Speaker No matter how far the Croyancy spreads, l’orateur principal is considered the shepherd of all-- peasants and monarchs alike. He (or she, as the chosen speaker of the gods can be of either gender) is responsible for overseeing the entirety of the faith, in every realm of the Principality. They serve for life, forbidden from marriage, with their underlings aiding them in menial tasks when the burdens of old age become too much to bear. Second only to the trueborn High Prince of Rosenyr, l’orateur principal sits upon the princely council, advising the monarch in all things faith related to ensure he does not offend those within the pantheon of Croyance. Grand Orateur - Grand Speaker Fulfilling what would otherwise be known as an “archbishop” role in other cultures, a Grand Orateur takes responsibility for several churches within a region. There are not many Grand Orateurs within the Principality on Atlas, as the faith is budding like a fledgling rose. Even when in full bloom, there are not expected to be many filling this position-- of those that do, a select few provide counsel to the Orateur Principal upon le conseil de foi. In order to become a Grand Orateur, one must oversee the construction of two or more churches, or gain responsibility over existing churches within a region of the Principality. Orateur - Speaker Every church within Rosenyr must have an individual who acts as a speaker of the gods’ words and will. This Speaker, or Orateur, has jurisdiction over a particular church and its happenings. L’orateurs are responsible for training les serviteurs des dieux, turning apprentices into fully fledged servants of the gods, to spread the faith throughout Rosenyr and surrounding lands. Within their respective churches, l’orateurs perform marital and funerary ceremonies, as well as provide guidance for all who require it. Those seeking penance, or forgiveness for sin, may also seek out an Orateur so that they might perform le rituel de la pénitence on behalf of the gods. Serviteur des Dieux - Servant of the Gods As the name suggests, les serviteurs des dieux live to serve their gods. Some may choose a certain patron to preach about, though they are servants to all within the Croyancy. An Orateur or Grand Orateur may task them with traveling to certain lands and spreading the faith, though most stay close to home-- preaching in the city streets and helping those in need. Many serviteurs des dieux served as medics during the deadly plagues that swept through the Principality before they migrated to the lands of Atlas, as all are instructed in the basics of healing and righteous combat. Apprenti - Apprentice Young and old alike have been known to become apprentis de la foi. Trained by an Orateur or higher, these aspirants are willing to commit themselves fully to serving the gods. Once they have completed their training and trials, they are awarded their pendentif des dieux, a symbol hanging from a chain about their necks that marks them as a true servant to the Croyancy. Marital Rites While the man waits near the altar, his wife-to-be is led up the aisle on the arm of her father or male guardian. Once both are there, the marital rites begin. By the grace of Celenus, the Goddess of Beauty, the betrothed are bound in body and spirit, symbolised by a crimson ribbon tied around their clasped hands. While joined, they speak their vows to one another-- of love, loyalty, and undying devotion to each other and to the gods that watch over them. The Orateur unbinds their hands, before anointing the couple with holy oil upon their brows. Those present should shower them with flower petals, to represent the new life of spring blossoms and thereby the new life borne from the woman’s womb. Gifts are given, before the couple retires to their marriage bed in order to consummate their joining in the light of the gods. Funerary Rites Those who have passed on must be burned, so that their souls may be released and returned to the gods. The ashes are then placed into a ceremonial urn, painted with depictions of deeds done during their mortal years. Over a family grave where the ashes are interred, the Orateur bids those of the Croyancy to watch over the deceased, and lead them to the hallowed fields where they may rest for their immortal days. Family members speak to the merits of the deceased, before all present cast a handful of soil into the grave. A vigil is held for three days and three nights, lit by the golden flame of a beeswax candle. If the individual passed while defending the Principality in battle, military honours are bestowed upon them post mortem, and their family is provided a hero’s stipend for the rest of their days. Should a woman die during childbirth, they are afforded similar honours-- as to bear children for the Principality is the most difficult battle of all. Coronation Ritual When a new High Prince comes to power, the coronation ritual serves as their final trial before the gods, to prove that they are the chosen of the Croyancy. All those who will be swearing fealty to the new monarch enter the maison des dieux in reverse order of importance, with the High Prince and Orateur Principal entering last. Upon arriving at the base of the throne, the High Prince kneels before it-- the only time that he will ever bow, and for the only things that are worthy of him kneeling: his throne, his people, and the gods. The Orateur Principal speaks blessings over the kneeling Prince, anointing him with holy oil from a ceremonial chalice. He must speak of his devotion and loyalty to the pantheon of Croyance before, by their divine grace, he ascends his throne as the High Prince of Rosenyr. All of his vassals then step forth, kneeling before the monarch and swearing their fealty before kissing his ring and returning to their places. The ritual concludes with a cheer to the High Prince, to the Principality, and to the Croyancy.