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Found 64 results

  1. TheNanMan2000

    The Banishment of Clan Raguk

    Music to Accompany Reading The Banishment of Clan Raguk 13th of The Amber Cold, 1703 Deep within the Orcish deserts, north of the old sacked and pillaged Capital stands San’Khatun, the current refuge of Orc-kin. Within the City holds the Orcish Clans, and the Clans of Gorkil, Lur, Yar and Shrogo are bound together in a bloodpact. The Raguks, a Clan that has had a large impact on the Warnation stands with a dishonourable Wargoth, shunned by the other Clans. Many of it’s members are revered for their dishonour and disrespect for Krug’s Tenants. The blood of Shagarath and Groggnar are stained in the sand. A party of Raguks, including Krukleyd, Leydluk and Wurst gang up apon the duo with others such as Blogus the Black and Dr Sauerkraut. Blogus the Black, once the two had been outnumbered and butchered, cannibalized Groggnar’s corpse infront of all those present. Before such events, the Raguks once again gang up apon a half-blood Uruk. When contested by Groggnar, at that time their Wargoth, one of the Raguk Goblins fights him. Now with others watching, Krukleyd intervenes in the one on one fight by kicking his Wargoth in the ribs. Later, Wurst challenges Groggnar to a fight. The fight is accepted, however once Wurst defeated Groggnar, he declared himself Wargoth. No such agreement was made, and the Rex was not present to watch what is supposed to be a series of three fights. After such, Wurst then gives the title to Leydluk, his father. The Rex, Groggnar, and Wargoths of Clan Lur, Yar and Shrogo gather. Three times within a short space of time Clan Raguk has shown contempt for the code of Honour, and stood idly by and laughed as a whitewash Orc cannibalized another none whitewash Orc. Before these events, Clan Raguk has garnered disdain from the Clans through countless other acts of questionable care for Krug’s will. As such, the leaders came to a decision. “Az Krug watchez from dah Ztarguzh’Ztroh, agh dah Anzeztahz whu zpilt der bluud tu uphold dah Kode ov Honour, dey fear for dah future ov owah Kind. Whut kynd ov Rex am I tu ullow zuch dizhonour to be karried out freely wivout repent? Agh whut have we bekum for zuch ah fyng tu happun?..” the Wargoths present grip their spears, swords, shields and axes “If it were unleh ah few membahz ov dah Ragukz dat zhowed zuch dizhonour, it wuld be ah mattur ov whytewazhin’.. But der kontempt fer owah wayz haz gone far longur dan kan be ullowed. Dey replaze Honour wiv Powur. Dey replaze loyalteh tu lat’z kin wiv zelfizhnezz agh dah evur korruptin’ pull ov dah bloodluzt. Groggnar tried changin’ Klan Raguk, but dey have nub changed. Now, Klan Raguk iz banizhed. All thoze within’ diz Bloodpakt zhall ztand bezide me az ah baztion ov whut iz expekted ov Urukz.” He then writes down on a large piece of parchment, giving it to an Orc to be transcribed multiple times and then read out to all those within San’Khatun. “By dah dekree ov Rex Murak’Gorkil, agh dah Waghgoffz ov Klan Gorkil, Lur, Yar agh Zhrogo, Klan Raguk iz banizhed from Krugmar. Leydluk’Raguk, Krukleyd’Raguk, Wurst’Raguk agh Blogus ‘The Black’ are whitewazhed agh zentenzed tu flat. If kaptured alive, dey zhall bekum dah blood-eagul. Klan Raguk zhall be kompletely removed from Krugmar, agh dah memburz nub lizted muzt blah tu dah Rex, or dah Waghgoffz ov dah lizted Klanz, tu be ullowed bakk in dah Nayzhiun agh join ah new Klan. Ragukz whu du nub blah tu dah Rex or dah Waghgoffz zhall be konzidured whytewazh, ~Rex Murak’Gorkil” Beneath the letter is the seal of Clan Gorkil, Lur, Yar and Shrogo Within San’Khatun, warriors of the Clans would be taking to their weapons and armour. Clansmen are readying themselves in training grounds for a potential battle. Others would be forming hunting parties for to track down the recently whitewashed Raguks, some of the hunters may even themselves have personal vendettas against them. Krugmar is ready for a state of War.
  2. For those that opened this forum post, expecting to read something good from me, don’t expect this story to have a sad ending. This story tells the ending of Jarsek Myrsta, the last of the Myrsta bloodline left alive to a curse that plagued them for centuries. From his beginnings as a soldier left in a war-torn world to the gruesome end that he faced in Haelunor, he lived from 1530 to 1703. There would be no grave to mark for him save for a lone sword that he came across some years ago, a blade that shined like fire in the sunlight. His gravestone was his blade, which he dubbed “Phoenix Blade,” and it would remain in Atlas forever more, to be hidden in the world and never to be found. Jarsek’s killer was someone that his grandson had close ties to, but no one would be remiss of the old soldier whose blood was cursed from the moment of his birth. Let us delve into the story of “The Darkest End” and see how Jarsek spent his last moments... ~(+)=~=(+)~ Some stories end with a dark note, but this story wasn’t one of them. It began when Jarsek was knocked out by Eros after fighting with a elfess, armed with nothing more than magic and a wand. He fell into the nightmare world once again where he saw his beloved grandson fight a daemon with the strange magic he had seen previously. The daemon was faster than his grandson, but Karren had tried to cast spells faster with the chance of burning up his cursed spirit which made Jarsek cry at the sight of how hard his grandson fought to stay alive. He screamed at the daemon as if he was beginning to succumb to the darkness within as the restraint was unlocked in this world, allowing him access to the magic within him. Jarsek would be casting spells towards the daemon to try and save his grandson, but each spell ended up fizzling as in life, he didn’t know much about magic at all. The daemon was winning against them both, and the struggle was enough to erupt Jarsek in a painful screeching that reverberated into the physical world as a ear-piercing scream. He wasn’t able to wake up from the nightmare since he was slipped a concentrated nightsap pill while unconscious, but he didn’t care anymore. He wanted to save his grandson, but what he did not realize was that his powers did not extend into the real world and only existed in this hellworld. This was when the daemon seized Karren and began to siphon his very soul away to the point that not even the aenguls could revive him. Upon seeing his grandson be seized and his essence siphoned away, he’d cry out to the daemon to take him instead. He wanted to sacrifice his very life for his grandson as he knew that the doors to the real world would be forever closed to him. The daemon agreed and feasted on his soul, erasing every trace of Jarsek from the world. Karren would cry out in pain as he saw his grandfather give up his life for him, but in the physical world, he died from massive injuries to his eyes and loss of blood... Illiran would feel as if he had succeeded in eliminating the Myrsta bloodline, which made him smile a bit. He suffered through that brat Karren and his impurity as well as killing off his grandfather with ease, but something else felt off about the whole ordeal. It seemed too easy to eliminate two members of a whole bloodline, but this would not perplex him as he wished to relish in his ill-gotten victory. Gywnevere, though while present, didn’t understand why that he had died. She also didn’t know why that she shed a tear for the fallen mali, but somehow, she knew that he had sacrificed himself to save someone he loved as a family. It would be one of either many or few good moments when someone died that she knew. Eros didn’t care in the slightest for the death of the mali as he considered him a mali’ata. Though Jarsek was dead, it did not mean that someone else would take up the mantle of learning about the darkness within the heart. Someone unknowing of the power of the Dark Heart, the Cursed Soul, the Fractured Mind and who would play his part to begin with a broken heart...
  3. TheDragonsRoost

    The Darkness Within (Part 4)

    Previous Stories: Part 1: Part 2: Part 3: We have reached Part 4 in this series, ending the first arc in the “Key to Oblivion” stories. Thank you for reading the storyline so far and I hope you enjoy “The Darkness Within,” the final story of the first arc. ~(+)=~=(+)~ Some stories don’t get to end with a joyous note. Others have far more twisted ends to them while the people are left with a sobering fact of life. We all can die and never come back. This was especially true to Karren Myrsta when his throat was slit back in the Druid Grove by Nivndil some years ago. He had left the world while the September Prince still roamed the land, terrorizing the population and leaving him with the sense of powerlessness that drove him to begging for death. Now, he resided in a world that offered no quarter with demons wishing to end his pathetic life so that he may never exist again. When his grandfather “dreamed” of seeing him as he was now, in the middle of transitioning into a beast of corruption and wielding dangerous magical power, he did not wish for him to see how far he had fallen and how close he was to turning into a being of pure hatred-tortured relentlessly by those that resided within the hellworld of The Pit. It was the one thing that he had wished to never lose-the good memories of him, tainted forever by how far that he had become-and the one thing that forced him to cling to dear life within this hellscape. To Jarsek, however, the sight of his grandson being a figure of pure heart and how he became something frightening was enough to break his very heart-shatter his core into millions of pieces. Ascended could not help him with this kind of problem as it affected him deeply to the point of wanting to die, but there was another force deeper within that fought to keep him alive. There was no other way for him to stay alive, broken as he was, besides taking up the darkness within his very being and letting it run free within him. Surging like wildfire and feeling cold to the touch, Jarsek would begin to learn about this driving force of Creation and even attempt to understand it through how it would react to certain situations, but however, something felt like it was being prevented from unleashing itself fully into his body, acting like a powerful restraint that would appear to be indestructible. Not a single clue on how to release that preventive restraint, Jarsek had only one option left to him at the time: begin to learn about the darkness within. This would motivate him into something that would either drive him into insanity or elevate him into power, depending on how fate had willed it. He wanted to know what this darkness was inside of him to the point of asking critical questions that would prove to be even more complex to answer as they simple to ask. “What is this feeling? Where did it come from? Is this part of our curse?” would three of the many questions that would plague his mind for years to come until he either gained a satisfactory answer or not. Critical questions that would endlessly plague him to the point that they would be burned forever to his core, questioning everything. Unbeknownst to even most High Elves, curiosity can be a powerful motivator for either the good or the bad choices made every second of every day, but Jarsek was the most afflicted in this case. Intelligent and witty, he would try his best to understand how this feeling within him worked and what it was truly... ~(+)=~=(+)~ While Jarsek had this feeling within him, something else was brewing in a currently unknown continent known as Arcas. Something that was not always so simple as the lands were brimming with life and suppressing that which was attuned to the darkness, keeping it in perpetual slumber. At least, for now...
  4. TheDragonsRoost

    Blighted Sight (Part 3)

    Previous Stories: https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/179359-the-dream-part-1/ https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/179386-cursed-bloodline-part-2/ ~(+)=~=(+)~ It doesn’t end. Ozais and Jarsek went into the town of Belvitz to find all the residents asleep, but strangely enough, Jarsek wasn’t feeling the darkness within him surge through his veins as it did the last time he was in the presence of his master. Even as his true name was called out, something lingered deep within his soul-eating away piece by piece of his ethereal light. He didn’t feel like something invaded his soul or was growing inside of it, but it felt hollow-empty from within. He didn’t wish to seek out the help of the Ascended, who might help him understand why his soul felt hollow inside, or seek any kind of magical attention due to the fact that Jarsek didn’t understand what was happening to him. Then he felt his mind slip, replaced with a dark hollowness that seemed to entrance him. Jarsek kept muttering how cold it felt, even though it wasn’t horribly cold in the town of Belvitz. This coldness radiated deep within his soul and if he was touched, his skin would’ve felt cold to the touch. It wasn’t any magic that affected him, unless you counted what has happened to him thus far. From the dream to the bloodline curse awakening deep within him, Jarsek has had an adventure that most people would try to back out of once they realized where the story was going. Unfortunately, Jarsek was not the type to back out and as a consequence, he would suffer great torment and pain from within. Merely half an hour passed before he regained his senses by Ozais slapping some sense back into him, but it was not without its cost. The bloodline curse took hold within his soul and then would spread to his body, slowly beginning to break it down and further exhaust the young high elf. Little did Jarsek know that some parts of his dream weren’t just symptoms of depression, but of something else. Something else that if awakened, would change Jarsek’s life forever. If people cared to notice his eyes, they could tell that the ambition had been reignited, but not in the way they would’ve expected. His eyes were carrying the Blighted Fire, a darkened flame that burned two types of colors: Black and Purple. The blighted fire wouldn’t mean much in the present time, but no one could predict what it would mean in the future.... A hollowed soul... A blighted fire, reignited... The pain of rememberance... Death of one they loved... A will, shattered by false hopes and dreams, turning to ill... Something was brewing deep within the high elf that would continue to fester until it either broke him or forced him to commit acts of impurity and murder. A hunger was beginning to take form within his soul that not even he could fight alone-a hunger that would become lethal. This was something else.... Something that can blight even the sharpest of sight and quench the fire within. There was an evil within that wanted free.....
  5. TheDragonsRoost

    Cursed Bloodline (Part 2)

    Previous story: ~(+)=~=(+)~ I felt the darkness take hold when I stared into the eyes of my master Ozais, along with the insanity that strangely flowed into my inner darkness-fueling it. It felt replenishing for me to feel my blood grow cold with my darkness flowing through after decades of burying it deep within. The pain and suffering I went through.... I finally understood why I was a good soldier.... The Myrsta bloodline always had some kind of darkness within them, awaiting to be awakened. From their inception, each of those within the clan-either man or woman-felt their darkness be dormant within and the urge to try to coax it awake. Some of the Myrsta bloodline-like Karren prior to his death-had a greater urge to awake and sate their inner darkness while others-like Jarsek-did not have such powerful urges. It doesn’t take much for their darkness to be coaxed to the surface, however, because darkness can come in varying forms. From wishing to know or experience dark magic to even the simplest task of killing those either innocent or otherwise, those within the Myrsta clan can coax their darkness out to the surface, but with a severe cost of losing part of themselves to their dark depths. No magic can undo this, sadly, because it is a firm belief of those within the Myrsta bloodline that those who carry Myrsta blood-even changing their name would not work-within their veins are cursed to feel their inner darkness take hold and make them suffer in varying ways, though no one is sure just how many ways this darkness can make the person suffer. Shades cannot shade those within the Myrsta bloodline due to this belief, but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t susceptible to the dark thought. When Karren was still alive and wishing to be shaded by an old friend of his, the shade felt the darkness of their family curse and threatened to not shade the boy and his “split personality” if he continued to seek being shaded. What the shade did not realize at the time was that a single act of denying Karren that which he wished to have fueled his darkness even more, even to the point of fracturing the boy’s mind. When Ozais, Jarsek’s master, looked into his eyes, he found the darkness take root within his mind-fueled by the Graven’s Eye and coaxed into being. It turned him into a soldier of darkness, making him a Dark Phoenix. To those who are not aware, a Dark Phoenix is the physical form of a Myrsta fallen into darkness-never to be returned to the light. Madness and in the presence of a dark creature made Jarsek’s darkness truly come alive and nearly wipe away the man’s personality that he worked hard to create, but even the family curse could not completely change the person they once were. They couldn’t be returned to the light by any magical means, of course, but there are always pathways back to the light if needed. Though Jarsek now felt his curse take root, that did not alleviate his nightmares about his grandson. When Jarsek was shot and knocked out in Sutica, he was sent back into that hellworld of a nightmare. This time, there was endless screaming along with the ever-burning fire and brimstone accompanying the sight of the black armored figure. It was also different in the fact that the armored figure was turning to face him directly. The figure seemed to have black eyes within his helmet and at his side, the figure had a sheathed greatsword with some kind of magical symbols on the scabbard. Symbols that Jarsek did not understand. He looked to be the same height as Jarsek, but the black eyes within the helmet seemed to be soulless, unlike his master’s eyes. The figure would begin to speak in a gravelly voice to Jarsek... “Grandfather?” The figure would ask with a sad tone. “How can you be here?” “Karren? Is that you underneath all that armor?” Jarsek would ask his grandson, almost pleased to see him once again. “Yes, but you need to leave grandfather.” Karren would say with a small undertone of urgency. “If you stay here, you won’t be able to get back.” “Back?” Jarsek would ask Karren, confused as to what he means. “To Atlas. You aren’t done, not yet.” Karren replied, sounding a little joyous to see his grandfather. “Though I wish I could hug you, you need to wake up.” “Where are you, my grandson?” Jarsek would ask, shedding tears of both joy and sorrow. “Somewhere that only the dead can survive. Barely.” Karren would reply as he would withdraw his sword in preparation of a fight. “Now go!” Jarsek would want to reply with saying how much he loved him and how badly he wished he was there to save his poor grandson from the darkness, but it was when he heard his true name that he felt the chains of life begin to force him awake and suffer through the pain of being shot in the arm. His anger took root as he remembered where his grandson had been this time and that made his inner darkness grow even more within. He was not going to allow himself to fall into that darkness again.... He woke up in his room-hours later-as he didn’t sleep easily last night. He would have a long day ahead of him, but there was a lingering question in his head. Where would the dead survive barely and how can I get back there?
  6. TheDragonsRoost

    The Dream (Part 1)

    The dream happened again. Jarsek wasn’t sure as to why he had the dreams of his dead grandson Karren, but something felt strange down to his core. Each dream was the same every time he closed his eyes and let his exhaustion take over from the day’s events. These dreams fueled him every day, but the fuel was mortal and it ate away at his soul little by little as if they affected him on a much deeper scale than what any magic could do to him. To those he considered friends, he looked tired more and more with each passing day. His once-glowing ambition that burned within his steel gaze had grown dimmer and colder as his essence was being affected by this strange coldness he felt within. Within the privacy of his home, he had grown sad and his intense feeling of depression had begun to ravage through his veins-sometimes even attracting attention from the outside. Though no one could understand just how sad he truly was. How badly his grandson’s death-that happened years ago-affected him and how he bottled it up. This dream that kept cropping up in Jarsek’s nighttime slumber was not helping to please him, but it made him even sadder. The dream, from what Jarsek could remember, was what he wrote in a journal before he departed to Haelun’or: A dream of fire and brimstone. Jarsek would appear in a giant place full of fire and lava, full of creatures that he did not easily recognize and was scared of. To this warrior high elf, he wasn’t sure why that he dreamed of the place that Iblees would call home, but nonetheless he would try to force himself to wake up to no avail. He felt like the world was too hellish for his steel-like determination, but something kept urging him to try to survive the hellish world around him. With no other chance, Jarsek would try to follow the urge as if it was his only guide in this hell he found himself in. It would continue to go through the fire and brimstone landscape until he would wake up, drenched in sweat. The high elf would, each time before he would wake up, see a black armoured figure with the strength of a hundred men with some kind of spectral black aura. A pure black aura, blacker than any dark magic he knew. The dream, Jarsek would come to realize, was an omen. A powerful dark omen that would change his world forever...
  7. Dear Sutica, Since the time I have arrived in this great city of peace preservation and happiness I have identified problems and struggles, problems and struggles are not overcome without practice and trying. Even thought we are going through a hard time we shall overcome, we shall overcome the trials as a successful guard force in this world. Progress does not happen without Failures, Failure Promotes Change and Change promotes and leads to Success! So Do not get discouraged fellow Brothers and sisters in arms. Peace is the ultimate thing to preserve and unity as well, Having Unity will surely have Peace and succession not far behind. Fear not and never stop trying Guards of Sutica! LONG LIVE SUTICA!
  8. NolandTheNovice

    The Stolt Standard - Vol 7

  9. Rudster

    A Mother's Plea

    A Mother’s Plea - The desperate mother, circa 1700 - Carolusstadt, the bungling capital of the Empire of Men. Through the crowded streets, filled with screaming merchants, patroling soldiers and visitors from places far far away, an old hunchback madeher way towards the core of the cíty. Halting at the grande noticeboard, she’d spit into her hand, before reaching for her lower back, to pull herself into a more straight posture. After a moment of painfull cracks and groans, emitted by the elder, she reached into the side, of her simple dark brown frock, to reveal a hammer and two rusty nails. Holding the nails between her few remaining foul, brown teeth, her wrinkled old fingers pressed a sheet of paper against the wood en board, before carefully hammering the nails into it. Finally having the simple paper secured on to the board, the hag glanced over her shoulder, before quickly merging with the crowd, disappearing in the streets. The notice would say: ”May God be my witness for my own failure, I’m addressing you all, good hearted Lords and Ladies of Carolustadt, as a desperate mother in need. Under great pain and sorrow, am I publicly admitting my own incompetence, of not being able to take care of my only child Hugo. I can no longer take care of my only offspring and ask one of you, Lords and Ladies, to take my child and give him work and a place to sleep. Excuse my shamefull public writing, but I am desperate and hopeless. Please one of your Lords and Ladies, have mercy and give my child a reason to live in servitude, more than I can give! Huge is a good child and will work as whatever you seem him to be fit for. Please leave a note, if you are able to take care of my boy. In God’s name, may he protect you all and guide you to be a better parent than myself. - A failed mother”
  10. TheNanMan2000

    The Bloodpact of Krug's Kin

    The Bloodpact of Krug’s Kin 10th of Malin’s Welcome, 1700 The Orcish peoples live far in the desert, within the blistering heat and home to a numerous display of ravenous beasts lurking the dunes for prey, Krugmar stands as a bastion to Krug’s Kin, and the Clans that call it home Within the Temple of Enrohk, the Clan leaders gather, Akila’Lur, Nurena’Yar, Znitgit’Shrogo and Groggnar’Raguk stood together, along with the Rex of Krugmar and Wargoth of Clan Gorkil, Murak’Gorkil. Deliberating the future of the Nation, and it’s past falls, the Clansmen decided upon a bloodpact, promising to stand by each other’s side until they met their end. Stood in a circle, Rex Mûrak'Gorkil drew his weapon, the Sword of Enrohk, found inside Enrohk’s Temple inside the coffin of an Orc defiled by Necromancers. The boon of Enrohk within the metal boiled Mûrak's blood, and formed multiple lacerations on his arm, forcing him to with-hold the bloodlust. Stabbing it into the ground, the group clutched it’s blade, squeezing tight until blood dripped from their hands, soaking it’s metal crimson from each Wargoth. They gave out their oath, and with the Spirits and Ancestors as their witness, the bloodpact is sealed.
  11. Hot_Dip

    Winter is Coming

    Through the mountain passes of Atlas, columns of blue tattooed Dwedmar marched. They marched in unison - they marched with purpose. They marched with pride - they marched with vengeance. They marched to reclaim what they knew to be theirs. With the fall of Kaz’Ulrah a wave of disgust overcame the Frostbeard survivors. After spending years building up other lesser clans, they found nearly all of them to be weak-minded. Easily tricked and twisted, these clans fell to the smooth words of those who knew neither to lead nor build a nation. They spoke of a rosy future, a united dwedmar governed by a democracy in which anyone could partake - a future they could neither provide nor intended to provide upon taking power. After being disjointed for many years, the Frostbeard conscious was once again being awoken however. They longed for the thrust of a blade, for a proper battle, and for the blood of those who did not deserve the title of DWED. They longed for Grandaxe blood, for Irongrinder blood, for blood of all the petty clans which had risen and basked in Kaz’Ulrah’s kindness - only to turn their backs upon it for a craven led nation known as ‘Assgarum’. There would be no kinslaying this time - only massacres of kin traitors. There would be no peace talks either - only the sharp ends of axes. There would be no allied clans - only the Frostbeards and those who acknowledged their Brathmordakin mandated superiority. This time would be different - this time there will be justice. As the Frostbeards marched home from a successful raid on Assgarum and their petit military, they sang and chanted. They counted their loot and shared it amongst one another. They praised their leaders and their ancestors. They swore in the name of Kaz’Ulrah Frostbeard. By the time they had arrived to camp, word had already spread through Atlas. The Frostbeards had returned, and they had sent a clear message to those who had wronged them. There Will Be No Mercy
  12. Shady_Snaekxddd

    Salt in the Sea - Tokoko Refugee Camp

    TOKOKO REFUGEE CAMP The journey through the Shattered Sea was by no means an easy feat and after a year of navigating the long stretches of blue between various, sometimes uncharted, archipelagos, the survivors of the Echo Bay Rebellion made their way to the shores of Atlas on their last remaining Junk Ship. With the leader of their rebellion’s whereabouts unknown with others missing and family long left behind in the Aeldenic South East, the Echo Bay Rebels set up camp and begin their new lives. *A missive is sent out across the realm’s roadways for travelers to see. It is written in Common and the various prominent languages of the Easterners* “We people of Echo Bay declare ourselves liberated with the death of Khan Ryuu and wholeheartedly denounce his retainer and heir Hibiki the Magician as a practitioner of Dark Sea Magicks unfit to lead the Easterners of Edn. We reaffirm our sovereign to be the Oyabun of the Death Lotus, he who does not ****, Master Bobo Kato represented by his right hand the Wakagashira. Those sick of the Khan’s regime, hear your countrymen - we live to fight another day and finish the enterprise begun. Reunite with us and rebuild your livelihoods. To our brethren from the mainland, Ni hao, haisai, annyeonghaseyo. We will take in all kinfolk willing to contribute to our community and the cause. Death to those who obstruct the revolution! We people of Echo Bay form the land of Tokoko. To our brethren seeking to join our community, send word through the Cloud Temple Aviary.” ((Contact Shady_Tales or Cassiflorn))!
  13. TheDragonsRoost

    Wrath of the Darkness

    Previous story “The World Timeline [ET Story]”: =========={(++)}========== “Energy. Mana. Amber. It’s all the same, but under a different name. No magic that is known to those in Atlas is destructive but yet offers creation. At least, not yet...” Some stories don’t end the way you expect it to. From those that offer salvation of the aeguls to those the crave eternal torment of the archdaemons, there is no greater battle than good versus evil. Yet, even though the battle is fought for millennia from the beginning of known Time, we always forget that there is no true evil or true good. Ascended are not truly pure of soul as they wish us to perceive them as and those who wield dark magic are not truly psychotic as many are led to believe. Most of those that wield the powers of the ether do not understand the true consequences of magic and nor would they. At least not at the beginning. Each one of those who wield magic are never able to scratch the true depths of light or dark and are forced to understand little. Until it begins to manifest in its own magics. Shades are merely a drop in the ocean compared to those forces that truly allow casters to do magic beyond the normal capabilities of a descendant. Necromancers are people who see no boundary between the forces of life and death, but are weak in power, even at their greatest of heights. True dark magic is never achieved by simply tapping into the soul and casting spells that remind all of their mortality, but it is when you have suffered through the very depths of pain and torment that even a daemon’s torture would seem like child’s play. That is the power that is behind the magic of darkness. The true forces of Oblivion itself. Born of suffering, of torment, and of pure rage, those that have been through Hell and back can feel their rage grow into a pure destructive force to where even those that walk in the Mindspace would be unable to quell such craving of destruction. The light within their souls becomes no more and transforms into a Black Soul, forcing no more joy or happiness to arise and only the pure dark emotions to exist. No sane person would ever wield this kind of power and survive intact, but even those driven into a pure frenzy of bloodlust, of carnage on a unheard of scale would appear to be normal folk until they let their true banners fly. Masters of concealment and trickery-while being true psychopathic monsters-those that wield this power are forever barred from the Seven Skies and those within the very depths of Hell would writhe in fear of those tormented by such dark feelings. Pure shadows of their former selves-daemonic in nature-they can never truly return to their old lives and for those that suffer in their presence, they are faced with the true face of those possessed by the very dark emotions our souls filter through. Darkened beyond the blackest of nights and eyes that become purest black, those that are faced against such a creature are never intact again.... If they are lucky to escape with their lives. All of existence should tremble in fear of these that succumbed to their pain and rage, but even they are not gods. Merely creatures that live forever-that are bound to their darkest of natures and are quick to respond violently to those who dare to cross their paths. Death lives among those who notice not its presence, but its cold grasp. ==============={(++)}=============== OOC: This isn’t an ET Story and holds no relevance to the previous story, but it is worth mentioning why I created this story. I’ve always been fascinated with dark magic (yes, it’s true) in any fictional story and roleplay server. Even on LotC, it is true that OOC’ly I am fascinated by the concept of Shade Magic, Striga, Necromancy, and even Liches (hence why they are mentioned here in the story), but this fascination is what drives me to create stories with not-yet-existing magics that have truly dark origins and have some kind of tie into those that wield it. Even the concept of Oblivion itself isn’t like my previous illiterations of it, but I strive to make it something that is powerful in its own right and yet offers itself checks and balances. Of course it can be said that I’m a “mega-nerd” for magic, but all I can say is that they aren’t wrong. I do love magic and the endless possibilities it offers to help further a story along (though only in the fantasy genre). Anyways, I do still plan to write up this magic for LotC (while my own rp version of Oblivion is not going to be on LotC since the lore wouldn’t be usable on this server) and make it possible for all to enjoy than just me. I hope you enjoyed this story “Wrath of the Darkness” and I wish you a good day! -TheDragonsRoost
  14. Edrahil and the Dragon Which is the third part of the Lay of Aegrothond, in which the deeds of Edrahil are told. In the elder ages of the world, when the Sun and Moon were bright and untarnished by years uncounted, a fair realm was spread between the mountains and the sea. In those days the paths of the Elves were greatly sundered and broken, and not least of all these rifts was the breaking of faith between the Almenodrim and the Crown of Malinor, of which the Song of Dagnir tells. By this virtue most who departed Tavule had come to follow the Great Houses, which had come together in order for to be known as the wider realm of Aegrothond. For a time they were guided by Sylvaen the Everflame, of whom many a tale is told- but by the time of this telling he had passed into oblivion, and led no longer. Now Prince Aegnor the Starfinder ruled over the holdfasts which had been his father’s, and he took upon his own shoulders the mantle of Lordship of the Almenodrim and the stewardship of the land and the people. Six brothers remained to him, left over from exodus- and each was possessed of a craft and mastery so that their holdfast flourished and grew. Thus they together spread their princely wisdom, and all the lands were glad for it. One among them was foremost in martial skill and ability, and it is he that will feature most prominently in this tale.Lord Edrahil was his name, which is well-remembered, and he was the fourth son of Sylvaen. Great faith he kept in the Oath of his House, and a will indomitable to purge the darkness from the fouler places of the world; to this end he traveled often beyond the far bounds of the realm of the Almenodrim, to seek out all evils and break them beneath the power of his bright will. Thusly were the lands of the Elves kept safe from harm, to grow and be fruitful. Now in the northern mountains in those years the dwarf-manses were in constant strife with all manner of dark creatures which grew and multiplied, having been left behind by the wraths of Iblees and other, older evils which have no name. Chiefest among these at that time was the wyrm Ankar, which had fled to those parts after the first breaking of the Deceiver. From the high peaks this beast commonly ventured to terrorize the peaceful Dwarves- a terrible wrath incarnate, borne upon a sudden wind and a gout of freezing breath. Ere long it came to be that the wyrm’s hunger was not sated with dwarf-flesh and gold, and it began to hunger for the far sweeter meats of the south. The first settlement beneath his wrath was called Myrdaen, a village known for its refining of fine wool and ornamented cloths of all kinds. It came like a cold wind from the north, and tore the land asunder- feasting upon the sheep and cattle, and driving aside the stones of Elvish buildings with brutal force. Of all who dwelt there, few survived- and in great clamour the Lord himself was felled by the snapping jaws of darkness incarnate. Some managed to escape, and hastened to the shores of the Sea where the Court of Prince Aegnor was held. There the beleagured Elves made their plea, and were received in dour mood by the Prince and his lordly brothers. So it came to pass that Edrahil heard of this grey terror of the high mountains, and his mind at once was set with fateful purpose. “By what right doth Ankar claim the mastery of the skies, who was made in mockery of Creation?” he cried aloud, and his eyes shone with a sudden flame. “Too long have we allowed this danger to play upon our borders, and done nothing! Give me leave, brother, and swiftly shall Ankar’s monstrous head adorn your mantel-piece.” And his Company of friends struck their spears against their shields twice with great clamour, calling their assent. But Prince Aegnor sat a while in deep thought, causing even the rowdiest Elves of the Court to fall silent. “Cheaply valued is thy own life, brother, and the lives of thy Company,” he spoke at last, and his eyes grew dark with foretold doom. “Great danger lies upon the paths of the northern mountains, and small comfort will pride be to thy widows if thou art slain in pursuit of this beast. If thy hearts do not know fear, let them at least know wisdom. Death and grim fate shalt thou find in the North, and naught more.” All eyes were upon Edrahil then, who was silent, his eyes aglow behind his golden mask. But it was Erendriel the Bard who spoke, and stood forward from the other nobles with hand upturned- whereupon glimmered the ring of blood-silver, bound and sealed with the Oath of Seven. “Hearken to the rings of our brotherhood, if thou shalt not hearken to the pride of thy brother! For we are not of those who step back from perdition, and stand idly by, while brother-Elves are so cruelly put upon.” And the Prince was given pause, saying- “Rightly dost thou speak, Erendriel, though calamitous doom of one kind or another I presage of you. Wyrms do not tire easily of Elven silver, or turn away from simple cruelty.” Then he stood, and upon his brow the flames of the Seastone Crown glimmered with a ruddy light. “Go forth, then, ye twelve Companions, and as a token of hope take with you the Helm of our Father, who is perished.” And Edrahil received the Helm, and bowed deeply, for it was a high gift. Within the fortnight he set out north, and thusly began the great quest from the citadel of Tamun. Here it will be noted that this citadel was at the very edge of the realm of Old Aegrothond- that is to say, at the juncture shared by the mountains and the lowlands which swept down towards the Great Sea. This was because the Almenodrim (and indeed most Descendant Peoples of that time) kept to the ancient laws set forth by the Four Brothers, who demarcated all the lands of creation for their descendants. Therefore Men were granted dominion over the plains, Orcs over the deserts, Dwarves over the high mountains, and Elves over the broad forested lands wherever they may be found. In keeping with this practice Tamun was raised upon a wooded foothill, not far from the true mountains of the dwarrows, and served as a border-fort for general purposes. In any case, as the northernmost fortress it had been first to receive news of Ankar’s attack on Myrdaen, and thus the mood was high when the crimson banner of Edrahil was seen approaching from the south. Twelve there were in total, alongside their Lord- the aforementioned Company of heroes, and Erendriel the Bard who chose to ride with them. Hardy Elves were they, who had seen many a trial in their time and had sailed west with the Seven when the call was sounded. They had participated in the wars of the old homeland, and knew well the sting of dragon-breath. The keepers of Tamun received them gladly, and informed them of the state of the Northlands. In the time of their marching it seems the wyrm had grown bolder, so that even the fortified cities were no longer safe, and feared him. But Edrahil only smiled, and called for more mead, saying: “It is he who should be trembling, good Elves. Soon, we shall make a fine powder of his ancient bones.” And so it was that the final night in warmth was passed, and there was little trepidation (far less, as you shall soon see, than there should have been.) The dew lay heavily upon the path into the Vale of Tamun as the Company of Edrahil set out, and clung to their scarlet cloaks in silvery droplets which shone in the morning sun like so many stars in a crimson firmament. 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, but beneath them the Elves smiled and were merry- for Edrahil led them whom they trusted, and Erendriel seldom ceased to sing and jest. “A score of red-breasted robin-fowl we look!” he laughed in melody, and the songbirds sang along with him in lilting tones. “To pluck the worm from the northern mountains, hear hear!” And a great shout of mirth and joy rose among the Company in march, for they did not know fear. Edrahil ordered then the banner to be lifted, and together the voices of the Elves rang farewell in ancient song as the town sank into the hills behind them. “Again they come, and swift they ride, “For Elvenesse, for Elvenesse!” Their voices rise with ringing pride. And trumpets high above them soar, for elder fathers, dispossessed for many kin, who fought and died, And nations torn and rent by war. For fear is foreign to their hearts, and blades with gladness strike and reave, Through forest air grown thick with darts, And long-spears wrought by Elven arts, Which forest-cloth like needle weave.” And so forth they sang in joy beneath their seven-starred banner of scarlet, as the road turned northwards and the foothills began to grow great and dark to either side. Ere long the heads of the mountains became hidden in the clouds, and the forests of Elvenesse gave way to stone and fallen gravel. As the last great tree faded beyond a ridge the group made camp, and settled in for an unhurried sleep. When the sun rose upon the second day the Company of Edrahil set out once more, though they sang less and spoke sparsely to one another; for the path had become difficult, and in places it wavered and fell into sudden crevasses which had doubtless been the death of many a reckless explorer. All about the road were tall crags of grey stone, interspaced atimes by small springs of clear water too cold for drinking- they had flowed down from the glaciers which crowned these mountains, too high above to be seen. The band stopped for short luncheon at noon, having brought with them a wealth of provision from the grateful Elves of Tamun, and set up a way-camp to rest their weary feet. Some jested that they hoped that the greater part of the journey was finished, but most remained silent- marveling at the broad tallness which was arranged about their fellows. So it was that one of them spotted a small creature crawling upon the rocks far below, which were woven with mists. He called to his companions, and Erendriel nocked a swift arrow in his heartwood bow. “Hark!” the Lord Edrahil cried into the abyss, and the astute Elven eyes of the Company discerned that the creature was in fact a particularly hairy dwarrow of auburn mane and pale complexion. “What business have ye here, in the lands between the forest and the mountain?” But the Dwarf did not reply, instead waving his short arms and swiftly scurrying from sight.“How odd,” remarked Edrahil, “I did not recall the Dwarves to be so fearful of Elves, especially in these parts. I wonder what it was that caused him to flee?” But no sooner had the Lord spoken, than a warbling cry pierced the air alongside many black-hafted arrows. [To be Continued]
  15. The Tale of Dagnir Which is the first part of the Lay of Aegrothond, and the earliest story of the Almenodrim. 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. It is told fully in the Lay of Aegrothond, the longest of all Elvish ballad-poems, which concerns in its majority the Parting of Kindreds and the many deeds, both fair and ill, of that family in the First Ages of the world. It is retold here in prose to lessen its length, for alike to all Elvish poetry it is prone to elaborate musings which are not conducive to the educational purposes of this text. The Lay begins in the ancient land of Malinor, wherein the great Eternal King kept his court and dwelt undying beneath evergreen boughs of yore; Malin was his name, which is honoured forever, and upon his brow was a crown unquestioned. His sons were as one, their ways unparted, for neither false prophets nor forces of earth and heaven could dislodge the keeping of blood which bound them hence. They loved well the trees and valleys of their realms, and delved in the deepest reaches of the forest to build their villages, being foremost among woodsmen. Among them, firstborn of the Father, walked Sylvaen Everflame, of whom this tale is told. He was tall, and fair of face, and resembled in all ways his father save for his locks, which were of raven-dark hue, and for his gaze, which was of piercing grey akin to the sea-floes of ice in winter. While his kin walked the deep forests he took a different path, and instead traveled to far western reaches of the Kingdom, near-to the mountains which held some erstwhile manses of the young Dwarves. In that land he built his holding, which he named Almenor, and few citadels were fairer in that time, or in any time since. In that place of silver fountains he came to know Serinwe, who would come to be his wife- and together they reared the Seven Sons of oath and legend, who led their people to glory and tribulation in equal measure. Their names were Aegnor, Edrahil, Renarion, Muindir his twin, Ilurien, Vitras, and Erendriel who was youngest of all; and they themselves were fruitful, so that the pillared halls of their kin rang with the laughter of children which the Elves valued more highly than any treasure. This great family was known as the Almenodrim, and they are remembered thusly in many songs, most chiefly by their own descendants. In the days before the Curse they were greatly peopled, so that several distinct Houses sprung up among them- but each bore loyalty to the Everflame and wavered not from their path alongside the Seven, throughout all of their history. Of all the children of Malin Sylvaen was the greatest in forgecraft, and in the tempering of steel and the making of mail he and his descendants were never outmatched, save perhaps by the most great-skilled of the Dwarf-smiths of yore. The hauberks and plate of their forges did not rust, and did not sustain the tarnish of age and weather, shining new-burnished even after an age of wear. All of their works were highly treasured, for they were crafted with arts which were not known to other wrights, and have been forgotten. It must, too, be noted that steel was scarce more than a servant to them- and it was in the working of silver, gold, and precious gems that they truly excelled, ultimately peerless. Made in those elder days were some of the greatest and most beautiful treasures of all noble Elvendom, which were beloved of all the Elder Folk and held in regard even in the furthest reaches of the continent. Among them were the Necklace of Stars, and Mίr n’Ardhon, and of course the great carved gem Belethil which was lost, of which more shall be told in other tales. All which could be wrought by hammer and anvil they excelled in creating- but no weapons, for the sons of Malin had no need for them, save of course for spears of alder and bows of yew, which they used to hunt wild game. In those days there was no strife, and all Elvenkind dwelt in harmony and peace. But even as Sylvaen and the Almenodrim laboured with great zeal and saw no ending to their works, doom of an eldritch sort came to the halls of Almenor. It began, as such things are often wont to, with a falling star, which tore the heavens and fell burning from the firmament. A clash like thunder heralded its coming to the plane of Aos, and a great fire and clamour levelled the forest about its landing- for such was its heat in that time that all which came in contact with it was immolated entirely. With a roar of splitting earth a chasm was opened about it in that wilderness, and there it would have remained if not for the curious whim of fate. It was Aegnor who found it, riding upon the great northern hills with his banners- and ever after for this reason he was oft-called by the name Elpharon, which means ‘star-finder’. Marveling at the desolation, he delved into the blackened cavern at its center- and though it burned his hands, he could not find the will to leave the glede-star behind. All marveled at it, and at its providence, for even the most experienced among them had not seen such ore. Concluding their businesses in those lands the Almenodrim brought it to their home, and though none could foresee it, sealed the fate of their House. For upon that metal lingered an evil which had no name, born of the darkness and vapour of primordial creation and forgotten by Gods and mortals both. At that time Sylvaen, being come to his full mastery and eminence, was filled with new intent and purpose- and growing bored in his lordship over forgecraft the great wright took great interest in the star-iron discovered by his eldest son. Many months after its arrival the metal did not lose its immense heat, and would burn those who laid hand upon it; Aegnor had failed to tame it, and it had scarred the reach of Muindir who was Sylvaen’s most promising student. So it was that at long last the father of the Seven came first to behold this curse of his family, and resolved to make something of it forthwith. But as he took up his hammer to strike upon the ore the smith beheld a great darkness which descended upon the great fires of his forge, alike unto a black grip which sought to take him in vice. And it spoke to him, this being, in a voice alien as the rubbing of coke on steel. “I have seen thee, Everflame, and all thy purposes and works are laid bare before me- but I deem them to be lesser far than those of thy Father, who is Malin. You shall fade, as leaves of autumn in the winter wind, and none shall know thy small name in posterity. As paupers thy sons will be, and grim fate shall find each among them in his time.” And the elf-prince was stricken by sudden doubt, for in his heart stirred a fear which had not been known to any in those blessed years; it was an evil not of this world, but rather of the one which had come before, and was never meant to linger. “By what vile sorceries dost thou speak unto me, creature of darkness, and what false poison dost thou pour upon my mind?” he cried out, and stepped back from the forge-fire which burned not yet so hot as the metal before him. “In skill of hand I have no single peer- all shall remember my works, and those of my sons, who shall be lords when I am gone.” But despite his remonstrance the creature of gloaming had seized upon the core weakness of his being, for though Sylvaen was foremost in cleverness and craft, his brilliant mind of metal and stone had become flawed in its vainglory, and in the obsession with legacy which was to haunt his line forever. “Stay thy despair, my child- for I sense a greatness in thy blood which shall surpass thy brethren,” the fallen star whispered, in tones of dulcet, layered upon with the cloy of paternal sweetness. “I will show thee much of that which thou knowest not, and change the path thou treadst- for great wisdom I see in thee, and a great promise also, which shall change the doom of the world in its stride. In my image thou shalt shape what none hath shaped before, and all shall know thy will, and fear it.” And though Sylvaen was not yet won over, his mind was curious- as all wrights he wished primarily to expand his art, and to craft ever-greater things until he had exhausted all possibilities of matter and shape. It occurred to him that to bind this star to his will would be the greatest achievement of his time, and a fine treasure in the vaults of Almenor; no creation had yet been beyond his ability in all his life, and no metal could give him pause at the height of his expertise. So it was that a fateful artificery began, which would last many days and many nights. Three times the smith began his work, and three times the metal defied his expert hand- for the spirit which perched upon it was possessed of its own design, and did not lend itself to mastery. For many hours they strove in the deeps of the Almenodrin forges, until the anvil of the wright glowed hot, and the smith himself was nearto spent. At last, putting forth all his lores and knowledge, the Everflame made corporeal the doom of his House- but it was not of his design, and the great shadow was upon it. So it came to pass that the first sword was born, and the Gods wept, for in the hand of Sylvaen it was destined to cause great pain and strife. The visage of the blade was as wrought iron, black and cruelly sharp, and it shone with a dull polish which caught and twisted the faces of those who would look into its surface; its guard was alike unto an umbel of upthrust thorns, and its hilt bound in pallid corded wire. Dagnir was its name, which was given to it by its creator, and harshly indeed did he lament its making; deep into Almenor he bade it be taken, and set inside a dark chamber to which no elf went willingly. And there Dagnir lingered, awaiting its fate. Sylvaen and the Seven soon forgot the star-stone in its entirety, and returned to their works of art and craft, growing more fruitful even than they had before. In those days the halls of Almenor were second only to the capital in populace, and greatly rich also, for they continued to trade with the Men and Dwarves who dwelt beyond the borders of the Greenwood. But the peaceful days of the First Ages were swiftly drawing to a close; and darkness festered in the far deeps of the world, marked by none save the delving Dwarrow-kind, who could not comprehend it. For Iblees’ work upon the Nether had been done, and the days trod ever-closer to the great war which would change the course of history forever. [To be Continued]
  16. TheDragonsRoost

    The World Timeline [ET Story]

    “Time is a tricky yet unstable force of nature. No mortal creature or immortal creature can understand the rules of this force and because of this, the Kha lost their powers to manipulate it and even future attempts to relearn this art are thwarted by the forces beyond mortal understanding. Those who call themselves Skygods, but I have another name for them. The Elder Gods.” When the world of mortals was made back on Aegis, it created what was known as a World Timeline. It was an intangible force of nature that all Chronomancers could access to gain information of the past, present, and future, granting them the knowledge and power to reshape history to their very whims. This did not come without its cost, though as the world of mortals had invoked the powers of the Elder Gods and they began to lose their connection to the Timeline. No one from the mortal world was allowed to change history with the knowledge gained from the future or even to have the power to alter it. That is until a certain object came into being. It was the very thing that the Elder Gods used to alter the Timeline and create a fixed point in Time. No mortal or immortal could understand it or even feel its power, but I could. Those same Elder Gods created me to guard their precious artefact for millennia and while I did, I gained information. Information that could bring this world to its knees. They gave me the knowledge to understand history and guard against it being altered. I know the Laws of Time and all the loopholes they presented, but however, I was not granted the knowledge to see how to break free of this eternal bond. I knew about the Prince and his goal to bring this world to its knees, but I could not change history. I could not tell the Descendants that they were fated to win against such a force or just how dangerous the Prince was. I could not alter the present by telling them that they were to face a threat that if not extinguished, would lead to disaster. I could not even side with them and change the future by erasing the Prince from Time. Like the druids, I was to remain neutral and do nothing. That was the law laid out to me by the Elder Gods. Now, I grow mad by this bond to the World Timeline. My mind slowly ebbs away to the Timeline and I can't escape it. My body, though immortal and never ages, is in torment and endlessly breaking down my physical strength. My very soul is siphoned away into the Timeline, never to be reclaimed. I want to be free. ~(+)=(+)~ OOC: This is a part of a story for an eventline that has dire consequences for all who are involved. It is not endorsed by the LT, ET, Admin, GM, or World Dev Teams whatsoever as this is provides a base for the storyline “Artefacts of the Divine” that I plan to write up. There will be seven artefacts in total.
  17. Cassiflorn

    The Belvitz Massacre of 1696

    The Raider Scourge of the 23rd of Amber’s Cold, 1696 The reputation of a thousand years may be determined by the conduct of a single hour. At the town of Belvitz, several bodies laid side by side, awaiting undertakers to take them away to their graves or the Cloud Temple. A white sheet covering them was stained a crimson red, hiding their gruesome ends. However, the tavern itself was scrubbed clean, a kindly gesture by those who remained in the aftermath. Wrapped in a scroll of an easterner design would be a notice bearing the handwritings of the Otsugowara written in a translated, Common language. To the administration of Belvitz, As the midnight oil burned in the town of Belvitz and its tavern filled with a handful of guests lingering for the evening, riders armed to the teeth spilled into the tavern and swiftly overwhelmed those within with potent brutality, seeking to cause havoc in the shortest time possible. They wore non-descript grey armor with little details that told of their origins initially. Survivors of the initial fighting were forced to fight one another at knifepoint while an unknown man was thrown from a height after suffering a grievous stabbing. Amidst the depravities between the entrapped civilians, shameful displays of dishonor reared its ugly head among the weak-willed. It culminated when a relief force rallied to battle the marauders but eventually succumbed. I am but a traveler, but the leader of the band of raiders was burned into my memory by his look of bloodthirst and vengeance, as if an oni, or demon in your language, has consumed his mind. Correlated witness accounts of the subject in question He was a giant man with hair as black as his heart, and a thick beard, his eyes a peculiar shade of violet/blue hue. Rife with demonstrable madness, his clothes were stained with blood from the blood and gore brought about throughout the evening. He proclaimed himself the King of Norland and declared that he had come for those who killed his people, taken his lands, and exiled his family. Ivar Ruric, the last of the Rurikid. Correlated witness accounts of the subject in question Another raider of notable detail was a 6’4 figure with a nasty laugh skilled on horseback, appearing quiet at times during the havoc of the raid, yet this Otsugowara suspects that he could very much have been the true leader and instigator of the raid itself displaying such intriguing shrewd behavior.. He left behind a note in the bloodstained tavern, insinuating this group to have been part of the Cursus Honorum and declared for it. On my familial honor, I did as much that could be done to assist civilians injured during the aftermath and devoted the rest of my time in Belvitz cleansing the tavern, leaving at the break of dawn. The smallest good deed is better than the grandest good intention. Suzuhito of Clan Otsugowara Clan Seal of the Otsugowara
  18. Fimlin

    Condemnation of War Criminals

    *A piece of parchment is posted around the hall of Kal’Azgaryum. upon gazing towards them you would read;* “As per decisions agreed upon by the Rikkin’s Council of Agnarum, the following clans and individuals are banished from the Dwarven Kingdom of Agnarum for their crimes against their own people.” The Frostbeard Clan -For repeated unrepentant acts of kinslaying upon dwarves of numerous clans. -For the repeated warring upon other dwarven people. -For repeated attempts to enforce a Frostbeard hegemony over the dwarven race. -For the murder of Bastion Ireheart and Dwifur Goldhand. -For repeatedly breaking from the Brathmordakin faith. Exemptions: -Azkel Frostbeard, Pereus Frostbeard, and Rhewen Frostbeard for their dissociation of their hateful and vengeful kin. The Onyxheart Clan -For their contribution to the acts of the Frostbeard clan (listed above). The pretender Balrog and his followers -For the continuous failed attempts to further divide the dwarven race. -For the enslavement of Elves and Humans to expand his workforce. -For extending his hand out to the Khorvad and Undead aligned Ironborn clan. -For dealing with and supporting known promoters of kinslaying. -For the kinslaying of Boldrumir Cottonwood. “Any dwarves who wish to break away from their barbaric kin may return without harm if they wish to redeem themselves and make a new life in Agnarum. Members of the exiled clans must abandon the respective clan in order to be unbanished. Garrond, Hamnil, Nerak Frostbeard, and Koralon Onyxheart are to never be given passage into Agnarum for their role in these crimes listed above.”
  19. Are you a winner? A positive and outgoing person or machine looking for a fulfilling new career opportunity? Do you seek a high paying job with benefits and possibility of retirement? Desire an environment full of trust and cooperation? Then seek no further! The Amatii familia are looking for an experienced barkeeper! We are a growing corporation along the northern seas and are in need of you! Yes you! Be the person you’ve always wanted to be! Be the person you are proud to be! Be an Amatii person! For serious inquires send a parcel to Gallus Amatius, most often seen within the Velian lands. (Boar#7843) Much Wow Much times
  20. TheNanMan2000

    A New Rex of Krugmar - Mûrak'Gorkil

    Music to Accompany Reading Official Declaration of a New Rexdom - Mûrak'Gorkil 4th of Deep Cold, 1693 The displacement of the Orcs has left Krugmar weakened and without a centralized location for Clan meetings and permanent settling of Krugmar’s people. Many of the Orc veterans of the Clans have gone on pilgrimages or not been seen for many months, and few were left behind to take up the mantle of Rex. Wargoth Mûrak'Gorkil and his Clansmen marched on Fort Stronk and he declared his challenge to the title of Rex. None accepted the call, except from Rognor’Lak, a warrior from the all-too-recent Clan war which had split Krugmar from the inside during Shakul’Gorkil’s Rexdom. Mûrak'Gorkil, siding with his kinsmen, defended Shakul and as such, Rognor felt duty and honour-bound to challenge him. Accepting the fight Mûrak and Rognor faced off, then fought unarmed and unarmoured, until Mûrak was victorious. Rognor’s duty satiated, defeated in fair and honourable combat, declared his loyalty to the now Rex and Wargoth of Clan Gorkil, and so Mûrak went on to the rest of his kin, and spread his word.. ”Tu mi bruddahz agh ziztahz ov Krugmar. Wi have been zacked by Albai, kicked by Zhara agh had owah alliez, Kaz’Ulrah, razed tu dah ground, but yet wi ztand! Owah hiztoreh iz nuffin’ but zack agh ruin, but nevur hav wi been lozt tu dah zandz, agh zo neithur zhall wi now! Tu mi anzeztahz, all dat have kume before me, bakk tu Gorkil himzelf, mi zwearz by lat’z zpilled bluud dat mi zhall zerve diz title hozh! Tu dah next yearz ov owah hiztoreh, agh tu bein’ rumembah’d for yearz tu kume! Ang Gijaak-Izhi!” Now under the new Rexdom, San’Khatun, the Orcish City in the desert has been made the Nation’s Capital. Many Orcs would begin making their way across the sands to their ancient homeland and to leave the grasslands behind, belonging to Elves and Humans. The Ranks and Government established by the previous Rex, Gurukk’Lak, is kept.
  21. TheNanMan2000

    Challenge for Rexdom - Mûrak'Gorkil

    A New Challenger Approaches From deep within the Desert North of plundered Krugmar, a Challenger marches the waves of sand and sharp effaces of stone. A black furred Demigryph, decorated with scars from past hunts, with a brown skinned and equally scarred rider atop, wielding his famous Poleaxe. Beside him are his loyal Clansmen, Shakul’Gorkil, ex-Rex of Krugmar and devout follower of Azog, greatest Blacksmith and 2rd born son of Gorkil. Another, Nazark’Gorkil, a long-standing Farseer of the Clan who’s knowledge keeps us standing. Then is Skorkon’Gorkil, a past Ugluk, riding his own Ugluk Bull as a monument to his past Clan, dedicated to the 3nd born son of Gorkil, Ugluk the renown Warrior. So is Rokag’Gorkil, a Lutauman under the famed Falum’Lur and an Orc who’s legend is still in the making. The group of Orcs, bound by blood and the steeped history of Clan Gorkil, pass Krugmar’s battered walls and ransacked buildings on their march to Fort Stronk, it’s grim display a reminder as to the adversity Orc-kin face, and the result of falling to it’s foes. Such a fall shall not be permitted, an oath whispered by Murak, although fully knowing his Ancestors and the Spirits were listening. Finally reaching Fort Stronk, standing tall as a bastion of Orc-kind’s final stand and surrounded by the ocean, the group of Gorkils march through the camp and into the keep, declaring infront of all Orcs present “Ay am Mûrak'Gorkil, pazt Waghchief ov Klan Gorkil, loyal bruddah ov Waghgoff agh Targoff Vorgak’Gorkil agh pazt Waghgoff, agh Rex, Shakul’Gorkil, now Waghgoff ov Klan Gorkil, challungez all whu zeek dah title ov Rex to ah azh on azh, unarmed klomp in Zan’Khatun, dah Goi in dah Dezert!”
  22. Nonival

    SCOURGE OF THE WYVERN

    The Encounter Aldonza Castelo takes a tentative sip of the wine, eyes glimmering in delight as the decadent liquid passes her lips. The woman leans back in her chair, swirling the wine as she looks up towards the evening sky, “Ah, yes. The story of my scar.” Her gaze drops back to the inquisitor. “I suppose it all began with a Grand Marshal and the King’s quest.” This was no simple errant quest. The far Southern reaches of Atlas is a cold and unforgiving wasteland of death. It is far too easy for the common man to fall prey to frostbite, starvation, or worse. However, if the King wanted the Southern region of Atlas mapped, then by the Seven Skies Roland Castelo would see it done. Four other brave souls would come to accompany him on this endeavour. The Sergeants Aldonza Cervantes and Vittore Stefano Volaire- both seasoned warriors of the Legion- help form the backbone of the group. Then, of course, there was the recruit. Bringing Jack along was clearly a mistake, but this was merely a mapping expedition and there were other soldiers of experience to call upon if necessary. The final member of the team would be a man by the name of Louis. A scholar of questionable scholarly attributes that was itching for a bit of adventure. Unbeknownst to them just what fate had in store, the five packed their bags and headed off towards the snowy mountains. The sky would soon grow dark as skies often do and crystal-esque snowflakes began to fall softly about the travelers. Five weary travellers came to a halt in a field of white. For you who might never have dared the forbidding Southern reaches, night is not a pleasant time to traverse the land. Three stayed behind to prepare tents and the yearned for embrace of a fire while the Sergeants split off, moving several yards out in separate directions to scout the region they had settled. Sergeant Aldonza was the first to return followed shortly by Sergeant Vittore. Each soldier announced their own discovery of ruins and edifices to the Grand Marshal. Over the crest of a small hill a few mere steps away, the other two followed the Cervantes to her findings. The ruins of a wall connecting two snowy hilltops loomed over them, too refined to be that of the ice wall that keeps the people of Atlas confined to that which they call home. Not to mention that this particular wall had a sizable archway within the center of it, guarded by cracking statues taller than any uruk could hope to stand. These desolate ruins posed no foreseeable threat, so a mark on the map and promises to return to investigate in the sun’s light were made as the group continued on to what the Sergeant Vittore had observed. Trudging over the flurry brushed hills- struggling to maintain their balance with the sporadic trembles of the ground- the trio came in sight of a Keep. Hopeful walls glowing of candlelight stood firm, beckoning to the soldiers. The remaining comrades were quickly summoned from the camp and together they all stood before the closed gates of solace. Their calls for the master of the house- or anyone willing to open its gates- were answered only by their own voices, echoing into the night. The darkness of forsaken hope cast its veil upon the union. Biting cold kissed them with icy lips and the wind seemed to howl only louder. It was nay over for the group, but the thought of returning to their little fire when compared to the comfort of shielding walls and warm food wrought everything in despair. Even the faint trembles of the ground seemed to grow in strength and number. For so they did. The howls of the wind were mere whispers in light of the thundering roar that made even the gargoyles adorning the Keep tremble at its might. A new chill- that which had little to do with the snow and wind- passed over our heroes. Five travellers of forgotten weary plow onwards through the snow, further up the mountainside to a surface of stone. The foundation of some structure lost to time. Moonlight glistens off soldiers’ blades and arrow tips alike as suspense plays its cruel tricks, catching breaths and warping time to a dreamlike halt. Even the gale waits silently, reverently, for the beast to make its debut. Now matter how the wind blows, the mountain does not bow before it- so say some. But this creature of fury and frost makes trembling cowards of the mountains. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sounds of night and rumbling ground applaud the warrior of the Southern reaches. Its icy gaze, peering around a snow-capped mountain peak, strike the group unlike any sword. This creature was surely one of the Seven Skies. Scales formed of the stars themself glisten. And from the wyvern of ice and frost so booms its powerful roar. “To arms! Stand your ground!” The voice of the Grand Marshal battles for dominance over the beast’s. Two arrows whistle through the air, each meeting its mark. Bows hold favor over the sword wielders as the creature pushes up into the sky. For a moment, the language barrier between man and wyvern is undistinguishable. All its rage is encompassed in a powerful breath of ice and wind. Those with shields raise them high before their comrades as more arrows are knocked at the ready by those with a bow to release them. These weapons of war are but toys to the beast. It’s roar replicates that of a merciless laugh as it swoops forward, claws outstretched to ****** up its nearest prey. Soldiers leap into action to no avail. Sergeant Vittore is raised briefly into the night sky for a mere few feet before the creature loses hold on its stubborn victim. Nonetheless, he is momentarily left winded by the cracked stone that greets him. The notion that the layer of ice protecting the wyvern is impenetrable begins to settle in their mind. Their arrows are practically useless against its natural shield. Fear shrouds them for but a moment when the Grand Marshal calls out once more “Down the mountain men and to the North!” Without question, the group hastens down the mountainside. Though they run in fear, do not take this act in cowardice. Soldiers and scholar alike career onwards to an awaiting forest. Snow begrudgingly gives way to forest floor, leaving frosted puddles here and there. Within the woods embrace, the five each take to the cover of a tree and await the approach of their predator. It’s cry announces its presence before the shaking of the ground as it lands ever could. The soldiers whirl around from behind the decent safety of their respective trees all at once. Arrows are knocked into place once more by Sergeant Vittore and Footman Jack as the other two soldiers begin their charge unto the beast. The Sergeant Aldonza fuels her charge with a mighty warcry only to receive a roar in return. The barrier of tongues is meaningless once more as the two foes cry out to one another, each one mightier than the last. Before any real winner can be determined, blades and arrows descend at once upon the beast. The weapon that were once useless strike the beast, its armor of ice melting away in the warmer air of the woods. Blood and sweat taints the air. The moon casts shadows of the battle upon the trees- the sole audience to the scene. Man and beast alike stir up the mud of the earth in their struggle. Blade and arrow upon scales. Claws and icy breath upon shield and armor. With a sickening squelch, the Grand Marshal’s blade is thrust into his foe once more in a substantial blow. The wyvern launches into the sky with a cry of agony, the action ripping the weapon from the officer’s grasp. Sergeant Aldonza is quick enough to leap back as their foe quickly descends, but the same cannot be said for the Castelo soldier. Five yells of varying intensity ring out. Bows are replaced in haste with swords and two sergeants, a recruit, and a scholar move with newfound rage to the aid of their Grand Marshal. Its victim still mangled beneath its claws, the wyvern spreads the once beautiful wings of icy crystals out. The air whistles from the sheer force of the motion as its wings arc forward, dangerously sharp claws upon each like that of a bats reaching to strike at its oncoming enemies. Another powerful blow is delivered, a claw catching the face of Sergeant Aldonza- the wyvern’s nearest opponent. The woman is sent flying back, leaving the remaining three to see a losing battle won. But their wrath holds no meaning to the foe, satisfied with the chaos it has wrought. The magnificent creature takes to the sky. And so the wyvern flies off, tracing its path of flight in a trail of blood. The trees look upon what remains of the group mercilessly. Two soldiers kneel beside their officer, looking unto the lethal damage done as the scholar moves to see to the wounds of the Cervantes. “Help the Grand Marshal,” the woman pushes Louis away, crawling forward towards the others as one hand clutched to the blood that pools from her face. It is evident that time will not be kind unto our five hopeless heros. Roland does no more than groan as the life slips from his weary form. Aldonza clutches the wound dealt to her face, pleading for someone to save him, damnit! Vittore looks over the wounds of his fallen friend and leader with a hopeless stare. Louis digs through what little supplies they still had on them in a desperate attempts to find something of medical value. Jack goes back and forth between Louis and Roland, as unsure as the rest of them as what was left to be done. And all of them slowly feel the weight of the night’s battle and the wretched nightmare they bore witness to bear down upon their shoulders. Aye, the story could end here. You who comes to know of this forlorn tale must surely now weep for our fallen heroes. But do not let yourself despair, for the trees themselves must have whispered of their state to passing wanderers. Three beings emerge from the foliage, surely Aenguls come to lift their sorrows and heal their wounds. And they do. One of the three embodiments of hope steps forth, enacting miracles of medicine unto the wounded soldiers. The three beings leave almost as quickly as they came, leaving no more than whispered words of advice and healing wounds. Those of us the wiser know the trio to nay truly be Aenguls, but for such light to pierce the veil of despair, they may have as well been. Five comrades sit in the woods. A Grand Marshal, two Sergeants, a recruit, and a scholar. Tonight they rest and give thanks for their life’s. But the time may come- the time will come- when five comrades seek out their foe once more. ((A few quick notes! This story is based an actual event that occured within LOTC. A huge thanks to Unwillingly who was the ET member who ran the event and later on also ran the revenge event. Also a huge thanks to Zac Clay who happened to have been streaming LOTC at the time and dropped by to stream a bit of the tail end of this event. And of course, a huge thanks to all those that were participants in the event and got to experience this with me! This forum post has been a long time coming and I’m really glad to be able to have finally finished this so that I might share it with all of you. Please let me know if you would like me to write a part two for this that entails the revenge story.)
  23. TheDragonsRoost

    The Phoenix Blight

    The sight hurt. Jarsek Myrsta, upon finding his homeland destroyed and full of damaging magic, was not pleased to find his home in such a state. He blamed September for destroying such a beautiful place while he was away and himself for not being here to defend it. Sometimes, it is enough to find hatred in destruction. He was a pure high elf in every sense of the word, but even he had his faults. No one was immune to emotions running rampant and this included Jarsek. His own emotions were not like most high elves, but this would prove to either be his greatest strength or his weakness. Jarsek felt no pain or sorrow once he looked upon Haelun’or, but rather he felt something else. Something that was beginning to add fuel to a bonfire that would last for the rest of his life. Cursed or soulless? No one knew. Not those left to see the day as this was my own challenge to overcome. He hated the fact that his grandson had been an impurity in his own house. The news of his death did greatly satisfy him, but it was not enough. He wanted to rid his grandson from the history books and make it to where he never existed in the first place. This kind of task would require a great cost, but it was one he was willing to pay. Even in death, his impurity rots. In life, I thought he would grow up to be a scholar working in the Eternal Library, his unyielding curiosity granting us more knowledge. No, this was not to be. After seeing his home destroyed, he came across a fellow high elf. One that even he thought seemed a bit suspicious. This high elf had told him that his name was Illiran Drennan, but he had never heard of such a name before. Even on his journeys abroad, he never once heard of such a house. It was at this moment that Jarsek decided to investigate this house through Illiran, but the risk of having this trust broken was too great at the time. No, he would slowly gain this elf’s trust and try to learn more, though this would also take its time. No greater shame exists than having someone in your own house be impure. Yet, this was something that could be inferred as irony. My grandson was impure and my own impurity stem from the blood on my hands. I took no joy or pity when I fought in battle, but felt nothing at all. This was something that no magic in the world could do to me as I was born with the ability to wield my emotions like a two-edged sword. It was what made me a good warrior, but it can also make me a monster. After talking to Illiran, Jarsek left the site of his old home and journeyed back to the Kadarsi, a cold darkness in his gaze as if he had shut himself from his own emotions. He didn’t know fear or loss, but he did know anger, fury, and rage. This could prove to be his downfall as the sight of his homeland did affect him, but not in the normal ways that a blighted land did. No, he was a blighted phoenix...
  24. Cold breezes are made to seem tempests, exacerbated by the winter’s brisk night-air, no cloak nor drape sufficient shield ‘gainst their assault. The lone dwarf wobbles toward a billboard with a parchment fast in hand at dusk’s nadir. The streets of Agnarum and Holm are empty. His steps are unheard and unseen. Quickly and crudely he nails his papers, gone swift as he came. << Was it truly Khorvad who cursed us with greed? Or did he simply cast off Yemekarr’s blessings? And let what hence had resided deep within us, Surface, Like impurities in the crucible? Urguan had his greed. It served him some well, but did to him the worst of things. For greed is no double edged sword; it is an old, rusted hatchet. With its blunted ax we spill kinsblood and rejoice at riches plundered, At grudges settled, At enemies slain. We have forgotten the consequences. And all the while its rusted shaft digs into our palms, But we are blinded to it by the ecstasy of victory. It feels to us as but a sting, and we say: “It was worth it, these riches, and traded for but a scrape!” We feel as if we have cheated the Gods; We rejoice! But we cannot cheat the Gods... For they are the greatest of cheaters. The consequences for cheating the Gods are dire. We have forgotten the story of Khorvad. In due time we feel the fever of greed: those rusty scrapes their poison begin to deal. At first our mouthes run dry, and soon our eyes grow heavy… the water which sustains us becomes ever harder to swallow. And we drink until we can no longer, to dull the pain so that it may go away. But this pain will never go away. We ignore it nonetheless. And only when the blackened tetanus, veined with hate and fueled by spilt kinsblood, sent to spite us by Dungrimm himself, on our arm becomes too painful and apparent to ignore, do we awaken to the truth and scamper for a cure. But, hark! Now is time too late. For no wiccan can construe a cure, and no Alchemist an elixir make, to quell this curse of the Gods, which death sentences by divine hate. So sleep now Sons of Urguan, Sleep for your honor has left you. So sleep now, Sons of Urguan, sleep for your fathers detest you. A kinslayer his hearth defiles with ambition and greed, and will surely suffer in Dor’Vuur. The bystander who this deed sees but ‘stead of stop it, flees, twice cursed shall be for sure. He cannot hope to taste Belka’s sweet nectar, in Khaz’a’Dentrumm. So sleep now, Sons of Urguan, Sleep for your honor has left you. Die now, disowned of the first one, For from the grave your ancestor mocks you. Dwarfkind exists no longer, only bare-cheeked shadows remain. Splintered is the arm that once bore the hammer, which to the world balance did ordain. A kinslayer still is kin, And surely the Gods shall judge him harshly. But are we the Gods? To slay a kinslayer to kinslay is. For blood is not water, and kin always kin remains. So sleep now, lost sons of Urguan. Your deeds your souls forever have stain’d. And die now, ye sons of Urguan. Your courage and honor never you shall see again. >>
  25. TheDragonsRoost

    The Embers of the Cold

    How does it feel? Dreycon asked himself that question as he went home towards Sutica. It wasn’t much of a question, but when he set those crops on fire, something felt off about him. This feeling seemed to persist as the walk back to Sutica continued through the forests and the beautiful landscape. He was a firm believer in fate and the balance of the world, but after the encounter with the sprite and the whole arson, nothing felt familiar. It was almost like he had done something to himself that had yet to be revealed. How does it feel? It lingered in his mind. The only question he was unsure of on how to answer properly. His feelings were complicated at the beginning when he lost his family to elven warriors, making him an orphan. He guessed that it felt good? How does it feel? It didn’t go away. It was maddening to ask himself the same question in his mind over and over again, almost like a broken record. He sought out the forces of September as a way to figure out what was wrong with him and see if they had healers that could heal him, but all he found was a maddening feeling that consumed his mind. How does it feel? He prayed to GOD in the hopes that he’d find redemption, but his prayers were left unanswered. That question still left a mark in his mind that seemed to never go, searing itself into his very core. How does it feel? Dreycon smiled with a dark grin. It felt nice to get it out of its cage. The pent-up rage and fury that had been building over his life finally turned into a bonfire that had plenty of fuel to burn. The flame was a cold one, but his cold embers would wear away his sanity and turn him into a clear psychopath. He felt like some of his constraints had been shaken off of him, the ones that made him weak and insufferable. It would grant him power, but not the magical kind. Power, the type he had his eye on, was physical alone. He didn’t wish to give away control to anything but himself. The dream he had the night before last finally started to make sense. It was a dream of fire that burned cold, but it would consume the world. Dreycon dreamed of a world without nature or descendants, but a world ravaged by the flames of war. How does it feel to finally let me free, Dreycon? To finally let your inner demon burn through your mind and fill your veins with fire and fury?
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