Toffee

Love love love, very in depth and flavourful. +1

Well written, I think having a more “passive” mani could be interesting. A very colourful idea!

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.

Best thing to do then is pugsy

Healing RP, in my opinion, is one of the most diverse and dynamic subsets of roleplay… when done correctly. As someone who has played multiple healer characters (magical and otherwise) across a wide range of servers , it is incredibly difficult to respond accurately in a healing scenario if the patient does not adequately describe their wounds in an emote. The purpose of an injury describing emote should not be to give a full Wikipedia page entry of the wound and who inflicted it. What should be included is the location, size, and type of wound, whether it is infected, and any other important visible details such as debris inside an open gash. There are five main phases during a healing scenario, in terms of the emotes of the patient: consultation, initial inspection, midpoint reactions, outcomes, recovery. I’m going to step through each phase and give examples of emotes for the patient-- while there are other guides available for how to heal in roleplay, I personally believe in teaching healing through RP, so I won’t be including that in this guide. In order to be able to effectively emote injury and illness in character, it is important to first understand the symptoms on an OOC level. This doesn’t require 4 years of medical school, but rather a quick Google search to make sure what you’re roleplaying is accurate. For example, it may be tempting to emote coughing up blood when your character is a victim of smoke inhalation, but anyone playing an adept healer knows that coughing up blood is a symptom of internal bleeding (you cannot make your lungs/esophagus bleed from coughing too hard). If you can’t be bothered Googling symptoms, you’re in luck: I’ve done it for you! Phases Consultation is reviewing a patient in non-emergency scenarios e.g. check ups of an old injury, pregnancy, or non-lethal illnesses. This is usually done in order to prescribe treatments/medicines, as opposed to a stage in the actual healing process. Initial inspection refers to times of emergency when the healer is looking over the patient for wounds. This is the time where you provide physical tells, such as location and size of a wound, and the sound of your character’s breathing. During the midpoint reactions, it is helpful for you to provide emotes indicating whether or not your character’s condition is changing. Usually reliant upon the quality of healing, this could be anything from their heart stopping, to the bleeding successfully being staunched. However, I would advise strongly against over dramatising an injury unless you specifically intend for your character to die or be permanently maimed. There is a comprehensive guide here which discusses the survivability of wounds: Jade’s Guide to Healing Emotes and Injuries. Outcomes are, quite simply, what happens at the conclusion of a healing scenario. Does your character’s breathing even out and they enter a peaceful slumber? Are they permanently disfigured? These emotes typically signal the wrapping up of a healing scenario, where both the healer and the patient are able to log off or head to other RP. What I typically see on LotC, because of the short time scaling, is that characters jump from being healed in a clinic to full health and functionality the next day. It suits their roleplay, and having any real repercussions for actions taken in RP isn’t exactly en vogue. While there is nothing explicitly wrong with this, as everyone enjoys roleplay differently, there are certainly recovery times for different types of illnesses and injuries. In the recovery phase, characters aren’t at their full physical capacity. This means roleplaying a limp, fatigue, lingering pain, or even fainting spells. I’m going to cover a list of the most common afflictions that I’ve seen in roleplay, but if you have any others that you would like added, feel free to leave a comment below! Table of Contents – Those in red have yet to be added (1) Pregnancy (2) Pneumonia (3) Poison (4) Dehydration (5) Wounds (a) Sword (i) Slash (ii) Stab (b) Arrow (i) Full removal (ii) Intact (iii) Partially intact (c) Flora (i) Branches (ii) Thorns/brambles (d) Fauna (i) Claws (ii) Antlers/tusks/horns (iii) Teeth (6) Infection (a) Necrosis (i) Coagulative (ii) Liquefactive (7) Internal bleeding (8) Broken bones (9) Crush injuries (10) Amputation (11) Hypothermia/frostbite (12) Burns (13) Blindness (14) Concussion (15) Asphyxiation (a) Drowning (b) Strangulation (c) Smoke inhalation Pregnancy Pneumonia Poison Dehydration Wounds Infection

Minecraft Username: toffeeZodiac Discord: toffeeZodiac#0458 Relevant Groups/Races/Nations: Aegrothond, elves/wood elves Rate your activity (1-10): 7 Give us a joke: Why is Peter Pan always flying? He neverlands

Sonnos, Prince of Foxes Condensed Lore To Sonnos, Prince of Foxes Sonnos, being a master strategist, personifies cunning. Those seeking cleverness and agile thinking should pray to him. Common: “Vulpine Prince Whose cunning rules the forest, We give to you our devotion. We show to you our respect for your kind. Oh Sonnos, the clever, show us your blessing.” Elven: “Ellaurir’Vulnan, Heya'leh orvull vulmaehr'ehya y'elame sohaera, Kaean’leh ortilrun nae illerae. Kaean’leh Sirame ay’nae’leh lye myumierae. Oh Sonnos, vul'oem, nae’leh ahern kaean illera.” Credit to Nivndil for the Elven translation! @Aethling Sonnos - Prince of Foxes Where the Prince of Ravens is a trickster, Sonnos is the patron of calculated thinking and strategy. He is cunning, and often worshipped by trackers, politicians, and merchants-- all who benefit from his boon of quick thinking. With foxes inhabiting the woodland regions where many elves call home, it is often considered a sign of good luck to see the tail of a fox disappear into the brush. Many believe that to follow a departing fox is to follow the path to treasure. Ethereal Form Extended Lore Whistling, like an expelled breath of air through teeth, rent an otherwise silent meadow. The arrow struck true, flying from yew bow to embed itself neatly in the flank of a stag. Not a killing shot. Findaas cursed. Amaethon was not with him, the mali’ame thought as he watched the injured, though still nimble deer take off through the Loftywoods. It was disheartening to be of a race famed for use of the bow, only to miss an easy shot on an already unsuccessful hunting trip. Findaas leapt over algae-slick stepping stones, picking his way across a rushing stream. Between that stream and the glittering jewel of Elvenesse lay miles of forest, rich with game and plants to feed Caras Eldar, as well as provide plentiful trade. His deer had run off, but there would be others. Boar, caribou, rabbits… as well as wolves and other creatures that Findaas would be wise to avoid. Night was falling swiftly above the canopy. Dusk light streamed through the leaves; a mottled pink that cast the trees around him in shades of rose and plum. His camp was not far off, nestled as it was in a shallow valley carved by a meandering stream that ended all the way at the northern sea. Findaas would eat the salted boar meat hunted three days past, before setting out at dawn to try his hand at felling a much larger prize. Crack. A twig snapped to his right. Findaas froze. Swiveling slowly on the balls of his feet, Findaas silently drew an arrow fletched in green feathers from the quiver peeking over his right shoulder. When a blur of brown shot from the undergrowth, the arrow was loosed with a blind, instinctive precision. The hare died instantly. While a part of the mali’ame was cursing at his own cowardice, a more significant imagery of hot stew boiling over an open flame served to dispel the adrenaline that was still pulsing through his veins. He said a quick prayer and pressed onwards. Slung over his shoulder, the hare weighed next to nothing. There would be none left over for a scant breakfast in the morning, Findaas knew. But when another sharp sound cleaved through the quiet dimness of the woods, a spark of hope ignited in his chest. Another hare, perhaps? Expecting a streak of brown or black, Findaas was surprised to see a triangular face of russet and white peering out at him from between the wild brambles. Succulent blackberries clung to the branches, limned with silver by the moonlight that now cast the forest in grayscale. When Findaas crept forwards, still the fox did not shift. It was only when he came within a hand’s breadth that the creature turned tail and disappeared into the roots of a sprawling shrub, with the mali’ame shooting after it as quick as an arrow. A fireside tale returned to him, of his father telling a group of wide eyed children that a fox always leads to some woodland wonder. He certainly hoped it was true, at least as a compensation for the low swooping branches that were casting stinging whips across his face. Some had even broken skin-- he could feel the blood welling up and spilling in rivulets down his cheeks. At last, the endless forest broke into a small clearing. Night dark as it was, Findaas had difficulty making out the shapeless mass that dominated the centre of the space. The fox was nowhere to be seen, but as Findaas crept forwards… he realised that another had appeared-- though this time, the vulpine depiction was made entirely out of stone. Moss coated the granite structure, which rose to hip height on the relatively small mali’ame. It was slightly larger than life size, though the statue’s eyes seemed to follow him as he crossed the clearing towards it. There was a mischievous air about him, (Findaas found the statue distinctly masculine, though he couldn’t place why), which the young elf found strange. He was not afraid of the forest after nightfall, but it certainly took on a creepy disposition once the sun had dipped below the horizon and the fireflies came out to play. This stone figure allayed those fears, and as Findaas came to crouch before it, he realised why. An offering table was laden with bones, strips of silk, and delicate glass bottles containing all manner of perfumes and herbal concoctions. The granite fox almost seemed to smile as Findaas gazed up him, though the triangular face was unmoving. Sonnos, Prince of Foxes, a whispered voice supplied, though there was no one else in the clearing. Findaas’ subconscious must have supplied the mani’s name. Like most young mali’ame, despite not being a part of a Seed, Findaas had been raised on tales of the mani and their deeds. The fear, respect, and love of the Aspects had been instilled in him from a young age, until the beings took on a life of their own. Even if Findaas had never seen a mani, and didn’t know if they truly existed… there were always stories. Terrible and awesome stories, that had kept him awake long into the night from fear or excitement. Taking the hare from over his shoulder, the mali’ame laid it on the altar and ran his hunting blade down the centre of its belly with a practiced precision. Cooling blood spilled over his hands and stained the altar red, while the scent of blossoms and earth became permeated with the smell of the hunt. Sweat, blood, death. Sitting back on his haunches, Findaas placed his blood-slick hands on his knees and began to pray. “Vulpine Prince Whose cunning rules the forest, We give to you our devotion. We show to you our respect for your kind. Oh Sonnos, the clever, show us your blessing.” When several minutes passed and nothing had happened, he cracked open an eye. The forest was still-- not a rustle in the branches nor hoot of an owl to be heard. Even though Findaas had not truly expected anything from an isolated shrine, especially considering he was not a druid, a sharp pang of disappointment cut through him all the same. Somewhat dejected, the elven hunter left his latest kill on the offering table and began trudging back to camp. In his wake, and unbeknownst to him, half a dozen foxes crept from the surrounding trees to gorge themselves on the hare. Dawn broke clear and bright the next day. Findaas inhaled deeply, and found that he could smell the dew outside, and the lingering scent of roasted boar from days ago. Thinking nothing of it, he rolled from beneath the furs he had been sleeping in and emerged into the crisp morning air. He cricked his neck from side to side, rolling the discomfort from his shoulders as he paced towards the bow that was rested against the gnarled trunk of a towering oak; one last day of hunting before he returned to the bustling streets of Caras Eldar. When the quiver was slung securely across his back, the mali’ame set off down a familiar path that wended its way between tree trunks mottled with lichen. The forest retained its wonted stillness, with not a breath of wind to stir even the highest reaching leaves. If the wind had been gusting, Findaas may not have been so quick to notice a snapped branch upon the woodland floor. While he was an adept hunter, sometimes the smaller tells of an animal’s progress through the trees went unnoticed by the young mali’ame. He followed the trail, silently cheering for his hawk sharp eyes. Bent over a softly babbling stream, a magnificent stag had paused to drink-- its broadside was exposed to Findaas where he crouched behind low lying ferns. Quickly assessing his position, and the angle of the being across from him, the hunter drew an arrow, took a deep breath in, and loosed a killing shot on the exhale. It pierced clean through the beast’s side, rupturing vital organs and sending it toppling to the loamy floor with a muffled thump. He would gut it then carry the stag whole, Findaas said to himself, and carve it up upon arriving back in the city. Padding over to the felled creature, his breath caught in his throat. For there, embedded into the deer’s flank, was half an arrow shaft. The rest had been snapped off, likely during the stag’s flight through the woods, but there was no doubt about it-- it was the very same creature from the day before. Findaas sent a prayer to Amaethon over its corpse, before swiftly relieving it of its innards and hoisting the carcass over his shoulders. He headed north at a steady jog, unaware of the vulpine eyes that watched his retreat. Miles away, the statue of Sonnos smirked.