Lord of Elves
Suede-Denim Secret Police
- Joined
- Oct 31, 2009
- Messages
- 6,976
When exactly is the deadline for this turn's orders? I can't seem to find it.
LINESIII- Forth from the Light
- Thread starter Lord_Iggy
- Start date
A MODERATE PROPOSAL:
If in time we were to look back and wonder how we lived: let us say it was the Years of Living Bloodily. In those days heady days of slaughter the heathens were many and we were few. That has changed. Now we are strong. Our armies are left to whither the days where we could cleave and cut those few who oppose us has ended. There are none left. That we need only kill some and not all to please Draal we have now realized. Surely, it is more propitious to kill only those he requires and to reap the surplus as slaves tied to the land, to the state and to our homes. It has long been custom to allow those who convert to avoid divine punishment but it must be said that we have hardly attempted to achieve this. Perhaps because the promise of financial gain now, has outweighed the value of gain in the future. I ruminate not on that, that is for keener less bloody minds than mine suffice to note that the promise of viscera now might be a false call to faith: the product of the greedy, the fickle and impious. Even the Shepard must keep the lambs safe even if he intends to slaughter the ewes and that a lamb consumed now is a ewe and lambs forgone. Likewise, the grain of rice consumed now is a field forgone tomorrow. Thus, I concede that while cathartic violence may be appealing to Draal I contend that it is only appealing till a point and that once that point has been reached: moderation and subjugation tomorrow instead becomes desirable on the same principle as the Shepard and the farmer. Instead, murder should be used in moderation and directly in correlation with the needs and desires of Draal. Let us not be wasteful for he has counciled us against. Let us be reasonable murders.
If in time we were to look back and wonder how we lived: let us say it was the Years of Living Bloodily. In those days heady days of slaughter the heathens were many and we were few. That has changed. Now we are strong. Our armies are left to whither the days where we could cleave and cut those few who oppose us has ended. There are none left. That we need only kill some and not all to please Draal we have now realized. Surely, it is more propitious to kill only those he requires and to reap the surplus as slaves tied to the land, to the state and to our homes. It has long been custom to allow those who convert to avoid divine punishment but it must be said that we have hardly attempted to achieve this. Perhaps because the promise of financial gain now, has outweighed the value of gain in the future. I ruminate not on that, that is for keener less bloody minds than mine suffice to note that the promise of viscera now might be a false call to faith: the product of the greedy, the fickle and impious. Even the Shepard must keep the lambs safe even if he intends to slaughter the ewes and that a lamb consumed now is a ewe and lambs forgone. Likewise, the grain of rice consumed now is a field forgone tomorrow. Thus, I concede that while cathartic violence may be appealing to Draal I contend that it is only appealing till a point and that once that point has been reached: moderation and subjugation tomorrow instead becomes desirable on the same principle as the Shepard and the farmer. Instead, murder should be used in moderation and directly in correlation with the needs and desires of Draal. Let us not be wasteful for he has counciled us against. Let us be reasonable murders.
Shadowbound
Incorrugible
- Joined
- Mar 4, 2007
- Messages
- 4,062
Heranod, in his cell
The ascetic sat in the center of his cell, legs crossed in meditation. A straggly beard, prematurely gray, hung down from his face, and his wrappings had been ruined by years of neglect. His untouched food, yellow yam mashed into a paste and old beer, sat in front of him. And though he hungered, he did not eat.
Just as he was imprisoned but didn’t escape.
He was Heranod, priest of the Nightcult and confined to contemplation for the rest of his days. Once, before, he had been master of the city of Mourne, dispensing law and punishment in the name of the Dark Lord Penumbra. He had been harsh, but he had thought himself just. He’d also thought himself second to the Nightlord, and expected to succeed to the post when the old man died.
Now he was the old man, and Jaladan was Nightlord. Jaladan had been Master of Rituals, an office overlooked in its importance until he’d taken advantage of its opportunity for patronage to build up a following among younger priests. And when the successor was chosen, it was he who was acclaimed. Heranod had been bitter at the decision to abandon protocol and opposed him. He’d thought he would win: he had both the secular and ecclesiastical city guards behind him.
When the time came for conflict, though, Heranod’s supporters scattered like insects under a bright light. They had been too comfortable in their positions, and Jaladan needed only to turn one to convince the others that the fight wasn’t worth it. Heranod had been stripped of his office and thrown into a dungeon, where he had been forgotten. His former supporters, he learned, had lost their own precious titles one by one: Jaladan didn’t need Heranod’s backers when he had his own.
A rat-like scavenger entered his view, cautiously moving towards the food. The ascetic had not moved for hours, and the small creature was confident that it could sneak away some of the prisoner's meal for itself.
The years had been… harsh. To both. Jaladan was Nightlord, but Umbra was no longer the sole power. His authority had been shaken by a defeat against the Panther Tribe to the east, who scattered the levied tribal warriors that Umbra raised with their trained animal totems. His lieutenants bickered and clashes whenever his gaze wasn’t fixed upon them, as they sensed his own death nearing and sought to position themselves to take advantage. Heranod, meanwhile, was where he was.
The scavenger sniffed the paste, gingerly, and watched the ascetic for a sign of awareness. But he did not move, did not even seem to be alive. Perhaps he was dead: the wild-haired monk had been there for all of the small animal's life, and all that of its parents.
He was no longer considered a power among the Mourners. Whatever influence or followers survived Jaladan’s purges had written him off just as Jaladan had. When his name came up, it was as an example of what happened to the loser of an inter-cult conflict, a reminder to all of Jaladan's lieutenants of the stakes.
His hand snapped out, faster than the scavenger could jump. It closed with a strength born out of hunger around its neck, and he raised it’s struggling body in the air and bashed it to the ground. Again and again, until the struggling stopped.
But things are not so simple. His mind and spirit had been honed by his decades of contemplation. From his cell he could hear the announcements of the city criers, and the gossip of the guards. He could scent the half-truths and propaganda, and predicted the course of coming events as an oracle could.
The scavenger joined the ascetic’s meager dinner, the meat filling in a gap in a diet that the yellow yam, meant for domesticated animals, left. Without it, his mind would slowly degrade.
And from this, he knew Penumbra still had a plan for him.
The ascetic sat in the center of his cell, legs crossed in meditation. A straggly beard, prematurely gray, hung down from his face, and his wrappings had been ruined by years of neglect. His untouched food, yellow yam mashed into a paste and old beer, sat in front of him. And though he hungered, he did not eat.
Just as he was imprisoned but didn’t escape.
He was Heranod, priest of the Nightcult and confined to contemplation for the rest of his days. Once, before, he had been master of the city of Mourne, dispensing law and punishment in the name of the Dark Lord Penumbra. He had been harsh, but he had thought himself just. He’d also thought himself second to the Nightlord, and expected to succeed to the post when the old man died.
Now he was the old man, and Jaladan was Nightlord. Jaladan had been Master of Rituals, an office overlooked in its importance until he’d taken advantage of its opportunity for patronage to build up a following among younger priests. And when the successor was chosen, it was he who was acclaimed. Heranod had been bitter at the decision to abandon protocol and opposed him. He’d thought he would win: he had both the secular and ecclesiastical city guards behind him.
When the time came for conflict, though, Heranod’s supporters scattered like insects under a bright light. They had been too comfortable in their positions, and Jaladan needed only to turn one to convince the others that the fight wasn’t worth it. Heranod had been stripped of his office and thrown into a dungeon, where he had been forgotten. His former supporters, he learned, had lost their own precious titles one by one: Jaladan didn’t need Heranod’s backers when he had his own.
A rat-like scavenger entered his view, cautiously moving towards the food. The ascetic had not moved for hours, and the small creature was confident that it could sneak away some of the prisoner's meal for itself.
The years had been… harsh. To both. Jaladan was Nightlord, but Umbra was no longer the sole power. His authority had been shaken by a defeat against the Panther Tribe to the east, who scattered the levied tribal warriors that Umbra raised with their trained animal totems. His lieutenants bickered and clashes whenever his gaze wasn’t fixed upon them, as they sensed his own death nearing and sought to position themselves to take advantage. Heranod, meanwhile, was where he was.
The scavenger sniffed the paste, gingerly, and watched the ascetic for a sign of awareness. But he did not move, did not even seem to be alive. Perhaps he was dead: the wild-haired monk had been there for all of the small animal's life, and all that of its parents.
He was no longer considered a power among the Mourners. Whatever influence or followers survived Jaladan’s purges had written him off just as Jaladan had. When his name came up, it was as an example of what happened to the loser of an inter-cult conflict, a reminder to all of Jaladan's lieutenants of the stakes.
His hand snapped out, faster than the scavenger could jump. It closed with a strength born out of hunger around its neck, and he raised it’s struggling body in the air and bashed it to the ground. Again and again, until the struggling stopped.
But things are not so simple. His mind and spirit had been honed by his decades of contemplation. From his cell he could hear the announcements of the city criers, and the gossip of the guards. He could scent the half-truths and propaganda, and predicted the course of coming events as an oracle could.
The scavenger joined the ascetic’s meager dinner, the meat filling in a gap in a diet that the yellow yam, meant for domesticated animals, left. Without it, his mind would slowly degrade.
And from this, he knew Penumbra still had a plan for him.
~Darkening~
Weep, Mother.
I ask to be NPCed; focusing just on growth and development. Thank you.
Abaddon
Deity
is there any 1ep = X soldiers yet? Or do we just dictate our economy into "military"
Lord of Elves
Suede-Denim Secret Police
- Joined
- Oct 31, 2009
- Messages
- 6,976
Just "EP into soldiers" was what I was led to believe.
Kraznaya
Princeps
Orders sent.
Espoir
Warlord
So... can I send orders?
erez87
Lord of Random
I guess I am somewhat late. I'll try getting orders today if not NPC me for a turn 
!
!
Lord of Elves
Suede-Denim Secret Police
- Joined
- Oct 31, 2009
- Messages
- 6,976
The Orgenon, Beginnings
On the Day of Birthing before the Age of Dawn and the coming of the multitudes of man, there was only Maenoch. Alone in the void, His kingdom the realm of nothing. And yet Maenoch crafted and schemed, with the mind of a thousand-thousand of the greatest scholars, architects, poets and writers. A million-million designs He did ponder before reaching his conclusion; his finality.
A universe, a vessel. What is the universe, our world, the ones above, if not a vessel? What good is it if tainted by weakness? He worked for countless eons untold by the light of His own thoughts, His ingenuity marking the path. What is thought if not light? What good is it if tainted by heresy? Our world and those above He made, and taking from Himself the essence of His glorious being, Maenoch made man. A vessel. What is man if not a vessel? What good is he if weak? Anon, He then bade the sun of our realm to circle at a slow and leisurely gait, as a sign to us, mankind, a vessel. Never to forget the sacrifice He made to give us life, to be His vessel. A glorious charge in being.
What is life if but a journey? What good is it if it goes uncompleted? And man did spread, the multitudes of his many folds wandering throughout Maenoch's glorious orb, His tribute to us. A vessel, for us. Eighty days of sunlight, eighty days of night, marked the path of time, the path of His wisdom. A vessel. What is time if but a vessel? What good is it if it is wasted? And He bade us all to make sacrifice of the Long Night, to bring about the Long Day, and the harvest. The beginnings of life, after the cold of the Long Night. The Night a vessel, to transport us to the Day, but only in gratitude. Why should one possess such a vessel, if one is not worthy?
And many tribes of man did forsake Maenoch. And thunder echoed. A vessel. The thunder of war a vessel for Maenoch's anger and wrath! Hurrah! A vessel.
On the Day of Birthing before the Age of Dawn and the coming of the multitudes of man, there was only Maenoch. Alone in the void, His kingdom the realm of nothing. And yet Maenoch crafted and schemed, with the mind of a thousand-thousand of the greatest scholars, architects, poets and writers. A million-million designs He did ponder before reaching his conclusion; his finality.
A universe, a vessel. What is the universe, our world, the ones above, if not a vessel? What good is it if tainted by weakness? He worked for countless eons untold by the light of His own thoughts, His ingenuity marking the path. What is thought if not light? What good is it if tainted by heresy? Our world and those above He made, and taking from Himself the essence of His glorious being, Maenoch made man. A vessel. What is man if not a vessel? What good is he if weak? Anon, He then bade the sun of our realm to circle at a slow and leisurely gait, as a sign to us, mankind, a vessel. Never to forget the sacrifice He made to give us life, to be His vessel. A glorious charge in being.
What is life if but a journey? What good is it if it goes uncompleted? And man did spread, the multitudes of his many folds wandering throughout Maenoch's glorious orb, His tribute to us. A vessel, for us. Eighty days of sunlight, eighty days of night, marked the path of time, the path of His wisdom. A vessel. What is time if but a vessel? What good is it if it is wasted? And He bade us all to make sacrifice of the Long Night, to bring about the Long Day, and the harvest. The beginnings of life, after the cold of the Long Night. The Night a vessel, to transport us to the Day, but only in gratitude. Why should one possess such a vessel, if one is not worthy?
And many tribes of man did forsake Maenoch. And thunder echoed. A vessel. The thunder of war a vessel for Maenoch's anger and wrath! Hurrah! A vessel.
Dragonson
Back and Stronger
OOC: Eh, if it isn't too late to join, put me on a stormy coast somewhere. 
Here's my application:
Orkeia
Cities: Scioe (Capital), Koraflek, Osmen.
Leader: Schreon/Dragonson
Culture: The Orkeian people beleive in the sea as eternity and perfection.
They urge to be like it, and constantly invent new ships and other contraptions to carry them over the oceans.
Currently, they dream of having floating cities, and they will do anything to acheive that.
Government: They have a simple monarchy, with a royal bloodline and all.
Apart from that, an Orkeian's power is determined by the amount of ships he own.
Economy: 2(?)
Population: To be determined by you
Army: To be determined by you
Navy: To be determined by you
Technology: They have a very advanced Naval technology, mostly involving strapping a hell load of sails to a ship to acheive immense speed. Apart from that, they have simple spears and longbows, and alot of knowledge with channels and leading water from one place to another.
Wonders: None. Though their mass-sail ships might count.
Description: They're tall, and very hearty at sea.
Their skin is SLIGHTLY brown, though it is hard to see since the Orkeians constantly cover themselves in tattoos.
Here's my application:
Orkeia
Cities: Scioe (Capital), Koraflek, Osmen.
Leader: Schreon/Dragonson
Culture: The Orkeian people beleive in the sea as eternity and perfection.
They urge to be like it, and constantly invent new ships and other contraptions to carry them over the oceans.
Currently, they dream of having floating cities, and they will do anything to acheive that.
Government: They have a simple monarchy, with a royal bloodline and all.
Apart from that, an Orkeian's power is determined by the amount of ships he own.
Economy: 2(?)
Population: To be determined by you
Army: To be determined by you
Navy: To be determined by you
Technology: They have a very advanced Naval technology, mostly involving strapping a hell load of sails to a ship to acheive immense speed. Apart from that, they have simple spears and longbows, and alot of knowledge with channels and leading water from one place to another.
Wonders: None. Though their mass-sail ships might count.
Description: They're tall, and very hearty at sea.
Their skin is SLIGHTLY brown, though it is hard to see since the Orkeians constantly cover themselves in tattoos.
Dragonson
Back and Stronger
Awlright.
Can i get an order in, or is that too late?
Can i get an order in, or is that too late?
Haseri
Emperor
Oh crap, I haven't gotten anything in.
I'm really sorry, I have final exams coming up, and I'm in a creative rut.
I'm really sorry, I have final exams coming up, and I'm in a creative rut.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be well taken care of. 
