Everiine said: The reason population is low isn't because there are too many orgs. It's because so many facets of the game are outright broken and protected by those who benefit from it being that way. An overabundance of gimmicks (including game-breaking ones), artifacts that destroy any concept of balance, blatant pay-to-win features, and an obsession with convenience that makes few things actually worthwhile all contribute to the game's sad decline.
He is a radiant immortal and is a vision of the macabre. The skull of a deer takes the place of his head, stained red with the blood of its death; blazing out from the two empty sockets with a sepulchral coldness are two orbs of icy blue light. Branching out from the top of the skull and forking at the tip are two small antlers, draped in a web shimmering with dew drops; spiders stalk in and out of the skull through its many cracks, repairing and elaborating the silvery veil. Lacking a visible neck, an ethereal darkness plunges below clothing, no flesh or bone can be seen except his gaunt hands and long, tapering fingers that are besmirched with the crimson of blood and bestial tribal markings. He is wearing a wreath of midnight black roses and torn robes of black leather.
Does anyone from Seren have a description for Dasia?
Everiine said: The reason population is low isn't because there are too many orgs. It's because so many facets of the game are outright broken and protected by those who benefit from it being that way. An overabundance of gimmicks (including game-breaking ones), artifacts that destroy any concept of balance, blatant pay-to-win features, and an obsession with convenience that makes few things actually worthwhile all contribute to the game's sad decline.
Ah, crud, it ran off my buffer. It's something about a stream of butterflies drifting north from Gaudiguch and enveloping Hallifax in a storm of probability energy, and the Primary Generator generates a temporal shield to protect it.
Jadice, the Frost Queen says to you, "Constant vigilance."
If anyone recorded whatever messages show up when you launch/are hit by Project Paradox, I'd like to see them!
The volcanic environs of Gaudiguch flare to life, the city shuddering in the distance as the citizenry enters an uproar of celebration.
Great plumes of rainbow smoke rise up from the Eternal Flame of Gaudiguch, wafting northeasterly over Mount Zoaka.
As the cloud of prismatic smoke drifts over the Inner Sea it becomes clear that it is not smoke but a cloud of butterflies, slowly winging their way towards the city of Hallifax.
Twisting off into different directions, 8 streams of chaos butterflies descend upon the crystalline city, the crystal spires flickering as as a storm of space-time disturbances begin to manifest across the city, disrupting the flow of energy.
A low thrum echoes through the skies as the Generators of Hallifax roar into action, crackling under the heavy flow of energy as a field of temporal flux begins to expand outwards from the centre of the city.
---- The number of streams of butterflies was equal to the number of spheres that are down I believe.
There's one message missing at the end, where the temporal energy recedes back into the city and the butterflies begin paradoxically disappearing.
actually two now that I look at it:
As the field of temporal energies expands across the city, many of the chaos butterflies explode into a prismatic mist while others disappear into folds in space-time, paradoxically disappearing entirely.
The field of time flux recedes back into the heart of the city, the flow of energy through the city of Hallifax weakened yet holding strong.
A salubrious warmth ripples through your body as the hale voice of Ayridion rings out, "We have expelled the Dread Lord from the Nine Seals, yet I sense a terrible, mindless entity behind this. Even now he lurks within the realms of the Nine Domoth - from where the Seals draw their power - and reaches out to the Immanidivinus, that dark and cold source nearest the heart of Creation from whence the Elder Gods draw their great strength."
A salubrious warmth ripples through your body as the hale voice of Ayridion rings out, "Should this presence gain the Immanidivinus, and the power of a god, I fear that all our efforts shall have come to naught. Thank you, mortals, for all the reverence you have given Me. I do not know if I have the strength to do what must be done, but there is no choice."
Ayridion explodes upwards with the fury of a churning inferno, and the air around Him drips with blistering heat as the Nine Veils part and power surges outwards from the Domotheos of Life in torrential waves, flowing around Ayridion.
The Ascended God closes His eyes in peaceful repose, and His form violently explodes into pure, brilliant energy, whipping around the Basin of Life in a maelstrom of shimmering light. The energy pierces through the Veils and vanishes from sight.
A fountain of green light erupts from the Moonhart Mother Tree, spreading over the Forest of Serenwilde as its Nexus is cleansed of a terrible plague.
A fountain of crimson light erupts from the Megalith of Doom, spreading over the City of Magnagora as its Nexus is cleansed of a terrible plague.
A fountain of mauve light erupts from the Master Ravenwood Tree, spreading over the Forest of Glomdoring as its Nexus is cleansed of a terrible plague.
A fountain of sapphire light erupts from the Pool of Stars, spreading over the City of New Celest as its Nexus is cleansed of a terrible plague.
The quivering Veils of energy suddenly flare, and you hear a horrific scream as a black mist is ejected from the Nine Domoth, dissolving as the otherworldly screams die away. A sharp crack reverberates throughout the realm as a great abyss begins to form beyond the Nine Domoth and the Immanidivinus is forever separated by this newly formed Threshold Abyss, bringing a quiet peace and strange calm to the Basin of Life.
The last lingering motes of white light slowly dissipate into the air, leaving no sign of the Ascended God.
You have the following guild skill choices available to you at this time: DRUIDRY or WYRDENWOOD
*hmm, let's go with Wyrdenwood*
You swell in pride as you choose to become a student of Wyrdenwood. A creeping sensation draws across your perception as a shroud, crawling and wiggling through your consciousness, eating away at all that you know. Something else - another - is there, edging your perception. Who are you? You ask. Who am I, echoes the response. Black and horrible, unnamed spirits twist about you, enveloping those lengths of purple-hued, twilit shadow that you distantly, dimly recognize as segments of your own star-shaped being, that which flesh is not but reflects. That shadowed shroud clinging to your consciousness draws tighter, choking out your thoughts, half-formed ideas of your own soul being grasped at, drowned. You gasp for air yet you cannot breathe. No, you have no breath - no breath, no body, nor have you a 'you'. I am not, you observe. We are - yes, that is it. We are of it. Interlinked. Connected. Your perception expands - a world filled with light and brightness and warmth, burning and scourging. Emptiness, hungering void, angry-red darkness smearing corrupted, dead lands. We are not, you seethe. We are alive, you protest. Your consciousness grabs at this shroud and, instead of fighting it, you cling to it. You draw it in, wrapping it about you, wrapping yourself about it, allowing its coldness to drain what warmth and life in you that remains. Yes, this is part of us. We are all a part of us - and you shift in the soil. Yes, form. We are, we awaken. We are an agent, freed from freedom. We are servants. Glorious servants. You inhale - and your lips part, sucking greedily at the air. All about you the world is purple and dark - beautiful, majestic. We are all about us, you admire - it is us, we are it. Its waters, turbid and as spoiled as the quagmire through which they flow, are our blood. Its trees - beautiful yet rotten, dead yet living - are our flesh. Its soil is our bone. The shadows are our breath. The chill memory of Mother Night is the shroud that enveloped us, freeing us. With a raucous cry, an oily black crow alights on your branches. It turns its angry, red eyes down, looking at you, and you return its gaze. Yes. We are change - great, powerful change. We are that which survived. We are the Glomdoring given flesh and form. We are that which overcomes. We defied death a second time - and we live where we ought not. We are the inheritors of the Realm of Nature. We are the rightful heirs of the Forests. We are the children of the Ravenwood. We are the putrified grove. We are the beauty of the new order. We are of the Wyrd - we are Wyrd given form! We are Wyrd given flesh! We are Wyrdenwood!
You swell in pride as you choose to become a student of Wildewood.
Suddenly your spirit quakes with this newfound knowledge - what are you? You are not what you have long known yourself to be, shimmering motes of energy twirling in the air about you, rising up and down as they sway in a soft, steady cadence. Small sprouts of birch and oak and hornbeam rise up between your toes, growing rapidly into saplings and then into something more, longer and twisting. Your eyes roll back in your head as you feel soft, waxy tendrils pressing outwards from deep within you, pushing away what you were and then enveloping it, consigning it to a deep slumber. The soft rustle of wind in the leaves - no, not any leaves, the leaves of the Mother Moonhart - fills your hearing. Is it not dead? Is it alive? Does it still grow? Yes, something within you answers. What am I? Your question echoes into your being, nearly forgotten, nearly abandoned. You are not, comes the answer. Your eyes flutter open and the world comes into view once more, shrinking, falling away from you - or are you rising? No, you are not rising. Growing! Yes, that is it, something within you answers. Your soul, the core of your being. What am I? Your question is quickly answered. Sleeping. You begin to forget - elfen? Faeling? Igasho? Perhaps. You realize with a near start a soft chanting that has long underlain the wind, one that fills your hearing. Silvery voices, whispering, full of promise, potential. Desperation lingers at the edge of their voice. A steady beat pulses just beyond your perception, a cadence, wild and almost untamed, rising and falling in rhythms that at first seem too erratic to comprehend, yet as you grow you become more in tune with them. Cycles. It all is a cycle, existing and not existing, living and not living, growing and aging, predator and prey, dying and then birthing. It is Nature, all about you! Yes, filling your being, becoming one with you. You groan, heavily. You creak. You turn, but so slowly. Your roots pull at the soil, pleading to be free. Free? Roots? Yes, roots, the answer comes. The sound of chittering excitement echoes in the air as you feel squirrels crawl up your trunk and into your hair - no, not hair, eaves - quickly making their home. Roots? Trunk? Eaves? What am I? Your question goes unanswered. Of course. I am the memory of the Serenwilde, sap and soil and blossom and branch, bark and root, nuts and berries, leaves and twigs, hope and dream, impossible made possible. I am Wildewood.
Comments
He is a radiant immortal and is a vision of the macabre. The skull of a deer takes the place of his
head, stained red with the blood of its death; blazing out from the two empty sockets with a
sepulchral coldness are two orbs of icy blue light. Branching out from the top of the skull and
forking at the tip are two small antlers, draped in a web shimmering with dew drops; spiders stalk
in and out of the skull through its many cracks, repairing and elaborating the silvery veil.
Lacking a visible neck, an ethereal darkness plunges below clothing, no flesh or bone can be seen
except his gaunt hands and long, tapering fingers that are besmirched with the crimson of blood and
bestial tribal markings. He is wearing a wreath of midnight black roses and torn robes of black
leather.
Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."
"A man's not dead while his name is still spoken." - Terry Pratchett 1948-2015
The divine voice of Avechna, the Avenger reverberates powerfully, "Congratulations, Morkarion, you are the Bringer of Death indeed."
You see Estarra the Eternal shout, "Morkarion is no more! Mourn the mortal! But welcome True Ascendant Karlach, of the Realm of Death!
Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."
"A man's not dead while his name is still spoken." - Terry Pratchett 1948-2015
The volcanic environs of Gaudiguch flare to life, the city shuddering in the distance as the citizenry enters an uproar of celebration.
Great plumes of rainbow smoke rise up from the Eternal Flame of Gaudiguch, wafting northeasterly over Mount Zoaka.
As the cloud of prismatic smoke drifts over the Inner Sea it becomes clear that it is not smoke but a cloud of butterflies, slowly winging their way towards the city of Hallifax.
Twisting off into different directions, 8 streams of chaos butterflies descend upon the crystalline city, the crystal spires flickering as as a storm of space-time disturbances begin to manifest across the city, disrupting the flow of energy.
A low thrum echoes through the skies as the Generators of Hallifax roar into action, crackling under the heavy flow of energy as a field of temporal flux begins to expand outwards from the centre of the city.
----
The number of streams of butterflies was equal to the number of spheres that are down I believe.
-
so uncouth
Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."
As the field of temporal energies expands across the city, many of the chaos butterflies explode into a prismatic mist while others disappear into folds in space-time, paradoxically disappearing entirely.
The field of time flux recedes back into the heart of the city, the flow of energy through the city of Hallifax weakened yet holding strong.
You have the following guild skill choices available to you at this time:
DRUIDRY or WYRDENWOOD
*hmm, let's go with Wyrdenwood*
You swell in pride as you choose to become a student of Wyrdenwood.
A creeping sensation draws across your perception as a shroud, crawling and wiggling through your
consciousness, eating away at all that you know. Something else - another - is there, edging your
perception. Who are you? You ask. Who am I, echoes the response. Black and horrible, unnamed spirits
twist about you, enveloping those lengths of purple-hued, twilit shadow that you distantly, dimly
recognize as segments of your own star-shaped being, that which flesh is not but reflects. That
shadowed shroud clinging to your consciousness draws tighter, choking out your thoughts, half-formed
ideas of your own soul being grasped at, drowned. You gasp for air yet you cannot breathe. No, you
have no breath - no breath, no body, nor have you a 'you'. I am not, you observe. We are - yes, that
is it. We are of it. Interlinked. Connected. Your perception expands - a world filled with light and
brightness and warmth, burning and scourging. Emptiness, hungering void, angry-red darkness smearing
corrupted, dead lands. We are not, you seethe. We are alive, you protest. Your consciousness grabs
at this shroud and, instead of fighting it, you cling to it. You draw it in, wrapping it about you,
wrapping yourself about it, allowing its coldness to drain what warmth and life in you that remains.
Yes, this is part of us. We are all a part of us - and you shift in the soil. Yes, form. We are, we
awaken. We are an agent, freed from freedom. We are servants. Glorious servants. You inhale - and
your lips part, sucking greedily at the air. All about you the world is purple and dark - beautiful,
majestic. We are all about us, you admire - it is us, we are it. Its waters, turbid and as spoiled
as the quagmire through which they flow, are our blood. Its trees - beautiful yet rotten, dead yet
living - are our flesh. Its soil is our bone. The shadows are our breath. The chill memory of Mother
Night is the shroud that enveloped us, freeing us. With a raucous cry, an oily black crow alights on
your branches. It turns its angry, red eyes down, looking at you, and you return its gaze. Yes. We
are change - great, powerful change. We are that which survived. We are the Glomdoring given flesh
and form. We are that which overcomes. We defied death a second time - and we live where we ought
not. We are the inheritors of the Realm of Nature. We are the rightful heirs of the Forests. We are
the children of the Ravenwood. We are the putrified grove. We are the beauty of the new order. We
are of the Wyrd - we are Wyrd given form! We are Wyrd given flesh! We are Wyrdenwood!
*Holy load batman!*
Portius is curious.