Hephaestus

Somewhere, a Grandaxe of times past paused at the charring of his hands, the cluttering and hammering of metals from all cloth ceasing to sound with the coming of this news, the dwarf nay enough a man of temperance to not to have intoxicated himself in half a keg of booze. “Well, f’ock me in ‘he’arse. ‘Oi thought it were ab’iet time.”

”I only do what he, Kor, has willed me to do. If I so need to be a conduit to himself, then I shall.” The lowly shaman clarified, ill-intentions not particularly of his nature; rather, a distant thought. ”I have made a pact with him, and therein am forever in debt to him. He is the gatekeeper; I am his tool, and anchor into the Physical, Mortal Realm.”

Thank you for this. Previous tomes had everyone and their mothers trying to get their hands around them.

Accept this, right now.

Vittorio Falcone bobbed his head nonchalantly in review of the constitution, offering but a moment of his time before the nature of it grew weary and boring upon himself. ”May the Lord grant this new age for Kaedrin many long years, and allow for it to grow and prosper, as the rose it holds sigil.”

|| IN THE PRESENCE OF SPECTRES || ”Lo’ return the age of Lutaumen, conduits to Kor. Purge of the remnants to the Soul Stream, that shall be the law.” EAR HERE, LO’ DESCENDANTS AND BRETHREN IN ARMS, AND LET IT BE KNOWN GHOSTLY APPARITIONS OF ALL ILK, AND DIFFERING IRE HAVE SPAWNED WITHIN THE HEART OF OUR REALM. THEY HAVE TOO LONG TAKEN TO A TRIFLING WITH THOSE UNDESERVING OF THEIR UNBEKNOWNST TOYING WITH. ROTHERS AND SISTERS IN HOREN, MALIN, KRUG, AND URGUAN, OF ALL IRE, REJOICE IN THE NAME OF KOR; SERVE CONDUITS TO HIMSELF, ALONG WITH THOSE OF MY OWN, AND SO SHALL WE PURGE THE SCOURGE WHOM HAVE LEFT THE SOUL STREAM WITHOUT HIS OWN FAVOUR, THE SPIRIT OF PERISH. Dominus to His Rexdom, Ugrad Lur, Grishnaakh’Raguk. Lûp’Izgul, Afar Izgul.

Wait, you guys are rping?

”Based.” A jaded Hanseti-Ruska man murmurs about, brow having been lofted at the juvenile nature of the literature.

”Heed yar’ call, lo’ senators and congressmen, and let it be known that Ibleespawn walk among us in shoes of deception.” With the spreading of sage and incense scent having imbued the heavy fog of the bayou, Sleeping Hawk continued to rest upon his retreat within the heart of the marshlands, head placed against what little was left of a crocodile’s pelt, sown into a stack of furs the ‘ame dubbed a pillow.

Oh, I see. That makes things less broken, yes.

Man, I remember some of these people. Crazy to think it’s been so long.

Dominus Grishnaakh’Raguk clapped either hands together in a solemn applause in celebration of the song and its writer’s bravado.

Below the very surface of the water, underlining the moss and lily pads that once hung from trees of the bayou, now subject to a life of torment therein sat upon the murky waters of a marsh, an alligator circled the little island that served solitude and shelter to himself, Sleeping Hawk, son to the hot airs of Anthos. Recently, there’d come news to the ‘ame that a certain Emperor had perished in his old age; indeed, a symbol of dishonour that spawned a stigma upon the people of the Empire of Man. Travellers appeared in his bayou, bearing little news but the coronation of Imperials, as that of Andrik Vydra, the only other coronation Sleeping Hawk recalled visiting, in its ornate glory, wherein lights hung from above, flashing spotlight to the Imperial men and women that indulged in the great sin of gluttony, the Hawk having, instead, remained blissfully ignorant as to this factoid, for he were his own judge. ”When one is born, they cry and the world rejoices. I do hope this Emperor of Vydra’s spawn lived his life that, when he died, the world cried and he rejoiced.”

Ah, yes. The living, breathing metal.

Stroking at his unkempt beard, that was more akin to a field of pale moss, than it were a beard, the Dominus, Grishnaakh’Raguk flashed a genuine grin at the coming of a new age for Ologs. Once, he looked to the left of himself, eyes darting in that direction, then the right of himself, gaze falling upon the walls he faced therein, the elf finally grunting as he rose unto his feet in a leisurely action. ”Agh let it be that Paxahru does nub take a liking to them, agh Glutros treats them agh their glutton aloft agh well.” He chanted, therein sat upon the peak of the foothills that lined the walls of San’Azgak, his voice continuing to slither in between every plate of a valley and its hills.

Grishnaakh’Raguk, instead, chose to be uncooperative, therein taking the form and forging it into non-existence as fry sparked where it once blew through the heavy fog and air of San’Azgak. Of course, he’d only done this by the will of his late clan-father, the honourable Skalp’Raguk.

I like that this iteration of Golemancy isn’t just totally abusing the fact that they are basically robots, and consistently be used for the sole purpose of having the upper hand in CRP, or otherwise just to flaunt their magic and show it off. Don’t know how to feel about this. Whilst I do think it is a relatively cool, and certainly somewhat realistic concept, who is to say it won’t be farmed like crazy? I mean, this is Golemancy. Every aspect of it has been abused, in every sense of the word, even the redlines, by people who don’t even have Golemancy, nor an actual Golem. Just an idea. Otherwise, I think you’ve done a great job at restoring this feat.

Sat upon a bench of stripped cypress, Vittorio Falcone bore an indistinctive smirk, as though not particularly fazed by the passing of Peter III, however a gesture of impertinence amongst most others that saw it as such. Per usual, the man remained frozen for time to claim in his own moment of utter and complete desolation with the recent death of the Emperor, the bustle of the streets from below the canopy ringing seldom in his ear. Instead, only a silence was managed. Nay did it appear that the man was grieving the passing much. ”’And by God’s will I redeem you of your failures, and send you to work peace upon it.’” He recited, before a casket of little else but dust that’d gathered. ”Gospel, 2:18.”

I’m gonna nut. The fact that the team took any consideration of the playerbase’s wishes, on its own, is so great. I think this will be the cornerstone of a good map, and generally, a good future for LOTC, thus far. Personally, I believe it’ll inspire a more interesting dynamic next map, what with nations getting their own currency. On the subject of the system itself, it’s a good throwback to the harsher days of LOTC, and honestly a good system all around (even if it is going to be abused and milked like ****, considering the server’s history with these sorts of plugins). As mentioned earlier, I look forward to seeing how everybody and their mother is going to manage a new currency, and how it’s going to work at all, to be honest (implications, variables, etc). So, in short; thank you very much, Tech Team.

The way I see it, doing that only makes the Heralds more akin to thralls than anything else.

Sleeping Hawk remained at a blissful ignorance, closely listening to the nightingale’s heed of call within the heart of a marsh. With the release of a piercing chant, the chieftain rose from his seat upon the clash of mud and moss, wiping at the bark of a tree via his left leg, in an attempt to rid himself of filth, thus the bark scraping violently against his thigh. ”The wheel is still in spin, o’ those high o’er heather. Sons and daughters of Eos who once were free, yar’ now are slaves to the factory.” Benevolently so, the ‘ame pulled heartily at herb of sage, a circle of such spawning around himself. In one light of a spark, the bayou glowed a deep hue of yellow, for the second coming of Igne’Acaele was to come.

Hereupon came midnight, Dominus Grishnaakh’Raguk having awoken from the midst of a slumber, of which he struggled to slip deeply into, similarly so to previous nights. Rising back unto his feet, the elf looked up to the stars, that glimmered a white hue through his tired eyes. This night was no different from that of the night he’d spoken with Phaedrus; just as tiresome and dull as such. The air, which took a deep hue of grey, was more akin to the hue of a bayou, just as murky and heavy. In a struggled attempt to reconnect with his troubled thoughts, Grishnaakh returned from whence he usually strung about; the bottom level of the shaman’s den. Drapes and vines swept across the surface of his long locks of blonde, glare of several torches appearing in the mint green of his beady eyes. The heat, having scalded upon his, now dried, branding of Skalp’Raguk manifesting a throbbing pain upon his flesh. T’was then that it came to him, Skalp’Raguk. A name he knew much of, but seldom heard of since beyond yesteryear; many, many moons beyond. But alas, to Grishnaakh, himself, there was, and will nay ever exist true death, only a change of worlds. And hereupon, so began the elf’s first journey into the Ancestral Realm, since that of Phaedrus’Yar, the Honourary Rex to his own Rexdom during Athera. The Lutauman sat at a rug, reaching into his pockets for a pipe of maple, of which’d previously been imbued with a weak strand of Thunderkrug, from whatever much was left from his mentor’s personal storage. With the burning of herbs, the scent of sage lingered through the heavy air, a sweat coming upon Grishnaakh with the eternal burning of the mind-altering flora, a psychedelia therein materialising in his own cerebral plane of thought, and vision. He brought his fists down upon a set of alligator drums, of which he’d harvested and crafted on his own, the pelt of the poor creature tearing and grating across his long nails with every beat of his free hand against its weak surface. Boom, the drum went, seemingly in unison with the thumping of the Raguk’s heartbeat, the ringing of his ear serving as an instrumental to such. And therein, the chanting began. “Lok Stargûsh-hai agh Kor; gothûrz, dûrburz Kor, ob amut taargus-izg.” He began to chant, either eyelids coming to a close with the beating of the drums. “Thrak-izg taar-thu, krum botlab-û urzkû, agh gaakh-izg irz-tuk mâdûrz.” Slowly so, the elf’s eyelids grew heavier, and heavier with the increasingly loud beating of the drums, the tiresome feeling having come upon him later than he’d anticipated it, earlier upon his day, when the night was still young and prosperous, and when clouds still wafted through the unwavering boredom of the sky high o’er heather. And, as it did the time prior, a near translucent aura manifested under the roof of the shaman’s den, embellishing the air surrounding himself at a slowed pace, however surely so. He’d grown familiar to this sensation, if he remained awake to watch as it managed in a calm struggle, and had grown to a liking of such a manifestation. A tether pulled at him therein, tying back at his stoic form, as a metaphysical noose would, like a burden, the beating of the drums coming to a halt promptly. Grishnaakh’Raguk succumbed to the tether. At first, there was nothing, only chaos reigning the domain of his mind, coupled with a backdrop of pure darkness more akin to onyx than much else. With a blink of an eye, he regained sight; with the thundering of storm clouds beyond, he began to hear; and, with the cool breeze hitting against his face mercilessly, he began to feel. For, as he did one previous time, the Raguk had walked, and did such beyond his own realm of existence. Emerald fumes rose from the ground below himself, that of Gundâr Broshan, cracks in the ground mirroring those of the sky which held a dull jet colour to itself. Above, deep grey clouds loomed ominously, a reason for concern amongst those who seldom frequented Stargûsh’Stroh, however a reassuring sign to himself. Before himself stood the Gate of Kor, shackles of unknown origin feeling against the edges of such, as though to represent the nature of death, in and of itself. The orthodoxy of the world he walked most of his days having left him behind, all oddities and obscurities that may have occurred under the sky of the Ancestral Realm retained a mundanity to them, in the eyes of Grishnaakh, for this was only a matter for further appreciation of the spirits. “Lûk-ob Maehr, broshân urzkû.” A simple lantern of aquamarine fry came to be from the obsidian which formed the walls of Doraz agh Kor, a hand of similar tonality materialising in the air before Grishnaakh, bringing itself down near the ground to pick the elf up, raising him beyond the ceiling to the sky. With a flash of a bedazzled grin, the man scanned the lands before himself, managing a glance at Turu Dobu Ziimarum through his naïveté, Kor having taken notice of such. “Atîg, lok gothûrz Kor.” He replied gently, gates swinging beyond his view at such, little hesitation therein from Kor. “Hon-tû.” The spirit responded at such, dematerialising into a hazy fog as he motioned for the elf to pass through. And so began Grishnaakh’s walk to the Fields of Many Tranquility, passing through several passages along the way, with cloaked sons and daughters of Krug and Maehr watching the high elf expectantly, as though he were to fulfil something in particular. Finally so, the Dominus arrived at whereupon he’d hoped to go, presumably, passing through the buffalo grass of Turu Dobu Ziimarum until he’d managed to see the blindness of an empty corridor. Seldom prospered much in these halls, which took to a projection of utter silence, and darkness, save for the eternal flickering and crackling of fry before himself. As though an endless spiral, and descent into nothing, the walls before Grishnaakh took nothing but further blindness, if any such was possible at all. There was little space to wander amuck to and from, the elf therefore opting to remain stood upon his own two feet. “I have come a long way for you, o’ honourable Clan Father, Skalp’Raguk.” Grishnaakh’Raguk called out expectantly, in the old tongue, the hollowness of the halls instead returning but his own echo in concurrence to his heed of call. Little else became of this silence, the eternal burning of oak continuing to meander in smell and sound. “Broshan, Grishnaakh.” A voice uttered back apathetically, as though not all too eager nor excited, only bored and dull. “Why have you come here, into my own domain?” Such a voice could only be matched to his own might, Skalp’Raguk the Honourable. “I require your guidance, Skalp. Just last cactus day, I spoke with Phaedrus in a spirit walk, with the same request, and yet-” Grishnaakh’s voice echoed through the entirety of the corridor, if there was any such thing as an ending to the constant darkness to it. “I feel just as lost as I did then.” “Speak then, Grishnaakh.” Skalp’s disembodied voice urged for the elf to continue. “I feel lost, as though I do not even know who I am any longer.” He began, a troubled smirk coming upon his visage, in signifying his distress at such a situation, club of bone gripped tightly within his other hand. “All I have ever done is for the sake of pleasing others. I become other people, for such purposes, and now I do not know who I am.” “Nobody asked for you to do so, Grishnaakh.” Further off, Skalp snickered at such naïveté, as though seeing the silliness in such a remark. “Why should you care for the opinions of others, besides yourself?” The voice spat, continuing along its answer. “**** them. You are your own person, Grishnaakh, and you may so go on to do whatever you wish.” “I see.” Grishnaakh placed a hand at his Adam’s apple in a further understanding of Skalp’s philosophy, an uncertainty therein in his neutral, tentative tone. “Well then, perhaps it was high time I searched for who I truly am.” “You are leaving now?” His voice heeded once more, tongue continually brash through the entirety of the interaction, however not at all in a harmful, nor disrespectful sense. “Well then, go make a ******* shrine for me or.. Something. I didn’t die for people to disturb my rest.” With the uttering of a final chuckle, Grishnaakh bobbed his head in reverence to the spirit, stumbling backwards only once before tripping unto the floor in a hurried crash, therein leaving the silence and crimson of the room behind, as he jolted back awake in a cold sweat, amidst the thick, warm air of the shaman’s den.

Couldn’t have said it better.

Thank you. You have made it so interbreeding with cats is impossible, and for that, I salute you.