Mescaffier

John had been handed the missive in Balian's square by Prince Xander as they arrived back. The man had begun to cry, a hand fastened over his mouth in pure shock. "My husband - they aim to rescue him?" he spoke, hardly louder than a whisper. It took a moment, but the man slowly glanced back up at the pair, a nervous smile plastered on his face. "We march with them. We'll save Rhys, and return him to rest, where he ought to be. Where he needs to be." The last conversation they'd had was an argument. The man needed his parting words with the Ruthern.

*backflips in full plate as arrows bounce off my armor, decapitating you in one strike with my katana This is PEAK RP. haters will be EXECUTED.

John crept out of a tiny room some place in the Mage City - paper in hand and brows furrowed as he tried to comprehend the magi-lingo he was woefully unfamiliar with. The man popped in downstairs to show @Lapidary. "Ist he talking about Hohkmat's ... King? Mayor? Whichever they go by."

"Huzzah! Pride Club!" proclaimed one John Galbraith, gleefully clapping his hands. He re-read it a second time, now with a frown on his face. "Oh. Pride's Cub. Eugh. Lame."

JOHN AUGUSTUS GALBRAITH – – FEAT. DHEN ‘YOUNG PRIMORDIAL’ – – THE RESPONSE 1. Our comrades getting neutralized, I couldst only watch in silence – the mistress we once did knoweth is looking PARANOID, and the lady spiraling. You're moving like a degenerate, heavy antic, 't's humour distasteful – why calculate, thou art not as calculate, I can predict thy angles. Fabricate stories on the battle front, a pathetic master manipulator, I can smelleth the tales on thee now: you're not the smartest, thou art a scam artist with the desires of being feared. Gashadokuro stands out, but thou art in the background, thee maketh threats yond pacify those folk, I writeth things yond electrify them! I could double down on yond line, but i'll spare thee the time, a last act of kindness; know thee a master manipulator and a habitual liar, too: but don't telleth lies about me, and I shan’t tell truths about You. -> 2. I knoweth some shite about WENCHES that wilt maketh those folk want to behold like a saint, this hasn't been about critics, not about gimmicks, not about who is't the greatest, 't's at each moment been about love and hate, and did let me say I'm the GREATEST hater. I hate the way yond thee talk, the way thee walk, I hate the way thee dress, the way thou speaketh did shit (if 't be true I catcheth thee, 't'll be DIRECT) We hate the ghouls thee rise because they confuse themselves with REAL undead – and notice I did sayeth we, 't's not just me, I'm what Aevos is preachin’. | V 3. Thou art a sick woman with sick thoughts, faechk a battle of blades, this is a lifelong battle thou art fighting. This shouldst be an exhibition of the game, but thee tripped up the moment thee doth call out mine family's name – why thee did hath't to stoop so low to discredit some decent folk? I suppose integrity is lost at which hour the metaphors doth not reach thee. And I like to understand because thy house wast nev'r a home. I try to empathize with thee, because I knoweth thee ain't been through nothing – crave entitlement, but wanna be so lacking valor, 't's puzzling. No dominance, shalt we recap moments at which thee didn't fit in? No secret handshakes with Rhys, identities on the fence, don't knoweth which family wilt love thee, the skin yond thou art livin' in is compromised in personas, take yond mask off, I want see what's under those folk. “Achievements”, why believeth thee? Thee nev'r did giveth us nothin' to believeth in. Faechk a battle - this is a lifelong battle with yourself.

"I'm going to plant a bomb in the house of whomever replaces him," declared John with a sagely nod, promptly taking down the notice from the board.

John sat outside of Kositz, cigar dangling from his lip as he read the letter fresh off the desk. A small bit of peace in an ocean of grief - it was something. The man tucked it into his coat pocket and rose back up, walking through the doors to head to his widower's old room.

John had found his husband's hat on the road - he picked it up, hoping to return it to him with a little lecture on 'how hard it is to make these', 'someone could have stolen it, you know', and the like. He got upon his metal steed and rode for the forests of Nevaehlen, the cap nestled upon its head, and settled down for a night's slumber in the trees. When he awoke, a bird pecked at him with a letter. He could do nothing but stare. The days in that month passed hazily. Rage triumphed over anything else, and when he had finally drawn out of it, his knuckles were bruised, nose broken, and much of his belongings pawned off or stolen. He could feel the familiar sting of orkish Light Dust burn his nostrils. Slowly, painfully, he shambled up. Beneath the missive that'd been nailed to the board, was another - bearing the man's handwriting and a single, bloody handprint as though it were some form of signature. "Do you know what nemesis means, Irene? I will teach it to you in blade and knuckle."

John gave a gleeful nod from his home in Nevaehlen. "Hate high elves, love diplomacy! Blessed be."

Some old, battered woman - a creature, more like, or even less than that - peered upon the paper. Few caught its attention these days, but the wisp and the flicker of the creature that delivered it to that part of Aevos beckoned it. Out of fear. Those bygone days, bygone ghasts and wights, eidolon and occultists. The spectral talon-mark of its disconnection still marred the flesh. "Vorztrok. Why does the name sound familiar?" "Not Vevodrok, surely. A different thing. Perhaps one of my old students? The sixth synod . . ." Viktoriya's frenzied mutterings trailed off as the husk of the Orenian meandered elsewhere, lost in thought.

A Balianese man, too poor of vision to have read the headline correct, let out a woeful sigh. "Ai, I could go for a margarita or two. Amirite?" hummed John, nudging his beau with an elbow. @teeylin

A mechanical drakeling delivered a parchment to Cerulia's gate; ------ "HELLO, your Serene Marq-ness! I am a despiser of Darkspawn and Capitalist extraordinare. I'd love to set up shop in your land. Where is Cerulia, in Lurin? Capitalist Farewells, - John Augustus G. Of Balian."

"ABORT IT," hissed some ancient, undead thing - crumpling the missive. It furiously stomped on it as another spam-letter entered through the window. "WHY DO I KEEP GETTING THESE!?"

One battered warrior, who'd just escaped the battlefront of Tor'galend, squinted at the flier. "AH, yes, Mordring. If I ever see the behemoth, undead, dragon lich, I'll surely give him a piece of my mind." Still, he pinned it to the board in his home to memorize the names.

I think it's less of a 'cursed children cannot become holy' and moreso a 'Xan is racist'

A deep frown formed over the face of the retired Legate. His hand carefully scaled over the parchment, before he cast it back into a pile, shaking his head. "We pay mina and wine to the knife-ears, when their dead 'empire' stands on its last leg, only supported by Kaethul . . . it ist unbecoming of Horen's sons and daughters," the elder man grimaced. "And our Queen's signature at the bottom. The audacity!"

i MUST be tall and I MUST wield scaddernak basilisk wyrm dragon scale armor and I WILL swing two greatswords at you. yes, I know the racial max is 6'6 but I am 7' ... ( I think elves should be tall & unhumanly, but if they're going to be Orc tall, it should be at the cost of strength [at least for the tallest subrace, Helves - would make sense seeing as they're racially proficient with magic]. Tired of seeing 10 year supersoldier elf personas )

"I will shoot myself in the head with a crossbow if ANOTHER realm claws its way onto the map," declared John, having seen red the moment he saw the word 'establishment'.

Kivdrona

A smile graced the ex-Legate's face as he saw the Edict -- and then, saw the name upon it. "The bastard house that stole a Viscounty, stole a position in the duana, too," scowled the man. He tore it off the board and discarded it in the canal, glowering as it floated past. "Foul."

Previous: Mechanics - Redlines - New: Mechanics - Redlines - *Note: Rule on small prosthetics not requiring signature goes unchanged, see text below to see the reason for change of Small Prosthetic classification Reason: I noticed that lifeblood has no way to 'scale down' for smaller crafts (meaning you're constantly making enough blood for an entire t5 Automaton). Thought it'd make sense to provide a way to scale it down at the cost of it only being available to smaller prosthetics, and add in a tidbit about malfunctions (because you're using Temu motor oil inside of your limb instead of Valvoline V1). Alongside this, golem limbs do not require ST signage unless they have Runes added to them: in similar spirit, Hand & Feet prosthetics would no longer require ST signage unless any upgrades were to be added to it (as listed in the lore piece: i.e. finger quills, secret compartments, etc). Just makes prosthetic creation much more simple.

Would be baller as actual SS's of the map- there's some djinn lair that has a cool ender-y theme, firelands for bedrock, етс

A cool idea, but it still holds a lot of the effects from what this piece originates from: https://dnd5e.wikidot.com/sorcerer:wild-magic (i.e. growing a beard of feathers, calming music on the battlefield, you suddenly glowing, growing in size, etc). Would like to see a more LOTC-ified and original twist on the magic for it to not feel like a mirror of a Wild Magic sorcerer

Cannot rust or be degraded (Lunarite), can be wielded by Kani users (defeats the purpose of its shtick, Not Wielding Weapons or armor), alongside the other effects ppl have already spoke of I think this is a very cool idea, but it seems to branch into too many different things rather than focus on One thing, making it insanely op