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Kalaneya Master


Last Active
  • Re: What are you playing?

    Sylandra said:
    oh my fucking god what have you done to my sanity
  • Re: Post Your Guildhall


    Auguries' Guildhall
    the Mae'vrai cree-Laes

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    Reaching out to an ancient archway wreathed in shadow, you offer your hand, leading it in a moment 
    of supplication to the guiding Spirits and signs of the Wyrd. You share Their embrace with an 
    ancient archway wreathed in shadow as the melody, scents, sights and sounds of the Wyrd suffuse you 
    in the bounty of the Dark Heart.

    And amidst the glory of the Wyrd, you hear words - not a voice, but knowledge, instilled within your 
    mind as if you yourself had thought it. "A thousand screams will echo the dark if blaze defiles the 
    Night.", it says, and you nod your head in understanding.

    You say, "A thousand screams will echo the dark if blaze defiles the Night."

    The fundamental truth of ages-old prophecy thrums within you, and the blurred forest beyond the 
    archway changes: you see now that there is an ancient, crumbling temple that lies beyond it, 
    wreathed in climbing ivy and roses. Smiling to yourself, you step confidently through the archway.

    (The 'prophecy' passphrase changes every time.)
    Dark forest path before a crumbling temple.
    It is quite mild. The forest floor here is a chaotic mix of rotting leaves, dead wood and long 
    grasses. Bare tree branches reach out only a few feet above the ground, clutching hands draped in 
    dank, decaying mosses. The ashes and oaks that grow here are rotten and dank, split in many places 
    and spewing mould and fungus from every pore. The huge form of a ruined temple lies before you, 
    wreathed in the perpetual embrace of shadows. Flowering vines climb the ancient stone of the archway 
    that towers here at the end of one branch of the path. 

    Enshrouded courtyard within an ancient temple.
    A heavy aura of foreboding hangs over this vast, half-ruined courtyard, shadows looming amidst the 
    veritable sea of wyrden flora that has overgrown the centre of this ancient temple. The heady smell 
    of wyrden roses and incense pervades the senses, and a fine, umbral mist undulates across the ground,
    caressing broken stones fallen from the lofty, semi-collapsed roof. The firmament is clearly visible 
    through the enormous breach, though both an ethereal veil of darkness and the thick forest canopy 
    above prevents an unreasonable intrusion of light. A rectangular colonnade of cracked stone pillars 
    surrounds the courtyard on all sides, thorned vines and moss nearly obscuring the weathered, now-
    indecipherable carvings that adorn their surfaces, whilst ravenous ivy and climbing roses cascade 
    from the entablature in which a number of crows perch, strangely quiet in the sanctity of the 
    temple's core. Beyond the pillars, the silhouettes of great statues loom, some shrouded in complete 
    darkness, jewelled, glinting eyes eerily watching from others. The centre of the courtyard is 
    dominated by a sizeable ring of pitch-stained stones, their matte surfaces bestrewn with lichen and 
    mauve mosses; constrained within the ring is a phantasmal, stygian pool of liquid shadow, its still 
    surface as smooth as polished glass.

    Before the regal beauty of Mother Night.
    Revelling darkness is most at home in the northern stretch of the temple, rippling mists of shadow 
    eagerly ensconcing the wing. Enveloped lovingly within the mists is a sculpture of unrivalled beauty 
    - the spirit of Mother Night Herself is captured within the pure, onyx-like granite from which Her 
    likeness has been coaxed, the surface of the stone miraculously smooth despite its obvious age. The 
    Great Spirit's features are austere, but hauntingly beautiful; depicted as a youthful woman, Her 
    eyes are darker than the stone itself, fathomless orbs of immense power only fractionally captured 
    within the sculptor's visualization. The statue's arms are outstretched, invitingly, coils of 
    darkness curling enthrallingly out from them in spite of the tangible, chilled aura that surrounds 
    the Dark Mother, Her terrible power surrounding the sculpture as rivulets of coalesced umbration 
    flow from small cracks in its surface. An elegant, oval bowl rests at the statue's base, set upon 
    clawed feet and awaiting offerings to the Eternal Mother whilst Her gaze follows any who pass, Her 
    stare unwavering and keen.

    Within the thrumming melody of Mahalla.
    The air swells with a steady beat, the chittering and scuttling of numerous deathwatch beetles 
    adding their staccato as the insects crawl too and fro across the lichen-covered ground. Stationed 
    between two thick granite columns, an eerie sculpture of vaguely violet-hued stone stands upon a low 
    platform, a strange aura surrounding it in pulsing fluctuations. Clearly once a carving of 
    breathtaking beauty, the sculpture has been worn and weathered beyond recognition, leaving an empty, 
    forlorn form behind. Still, the steady thrum emanates from the sculpture itself, filling the 
    environs with the subtle, pounding rhythm of life, the everlasting song of the Wyrd echoed within 
    its melody. At the feet of the sculpture, a shallow depression welcomes offerings, the dried, 
    crushed petals of roses elegantly blanketing the hollow.

    Beneath the watchful gazes of the Dark Spirits.
    A collection of flowing, phantasmal statues stand throughout this low chamber in no particular sense 
    of order, each varying in size but all depicting the ethereal silhouette of a wyrden Dark Spirit. 
    The depictions mere ghosts of mortalkind, the figures illustrated within are mostly vague mimicries 
    of elfen and faeling, though other races can be barely deciphered amongst the others. The sculptures 
    are hewn not of stone, but of another substance not easily identified; the essence of darkness 
    itself has been hardened and shaped, living shadows lovingly creeping over the faceless sculptures 
    and coiling around the enraptured limbs and torsos. Void of countenances, blazing red eyes gaze 
    nonetheless chillingly from the sculptures' featureless visages, eternally watchful, eternally 
    patient. The remnants of ancient stone plaques front each blackened granite pedestal upon which the 
    timeless sculptures dance, their words long-ago worn away but perhaps once telling the story of 
    their respective spirit's mortal life. Weathered archways lead to the east and west wings of the 
    temple, whilst through the northernmost archway can be seen the massive, spread-winged form of Crow, 
    the Spirit's stone form looming beyond.

    Weathered mural of the Wyrden Soul.
    A vast, masterful but well-worn carving spreads across a large expanse of the eastern wall, 
    pockmarked and fractured but still able to convey its stunning vision. Engraved directly within the 
    stone is a scene of wyrden spirituality; at the far right of the carving, the sleek form of four-
    winged Crow perches, single-eyed gaze directed towards the centre, His bearing one of unshakeable 
    confidence. At the left, the shrouded, yet unmistakably beautiful form of Mother Night lingers, Her 
    hand outstretched towards the centre of the mural as well. Surrounding the Great Spirits, beetles, 
    wasps, bats, spiders and a single large scorpion depict the presence of the Idols, and the barely-
    distinguishable forms of the Dark Spirits flit between them, haunting eyes turned inwards. Nearer to 
    the centre is a an amorphous mist surrounded by coils of energy, bespeaking the presence of Mahalla 
    and the Shadowbeat. At the core of the mural is the single, massive form of the Master Ravenwood 
    Tree, its bark still retaining some of the intricate detail once present in its carving. The 
    Ravenwood's expansive, gnarled branches stretch across the top of the mural, reaching to either side 
    whilst its roots mimic them along the bottom. At the left and right edges, the branches and roots 
    meet, joining the Ravenwood Tree whilst enveloping the Spirits within, unifying the scene and 
    capturing the glorious spirit of the Wyrd so aptly within.

    Before the dark majesty of Brother Crow.
    The southern reaches of the temple are dominated by the cracked and age-worn depiction of Crow in 
    weathered granite, the statue nigh rivalling the lofty columns that surround it. Four great wings 
    span over twenty feet, flared outwards as the Great Spirit caws in triumph, His single eye a still-
    glittering, cracked ruby that fixates on His surroundings with a keen watchfulness. One of His thick-
    taloned feet crushes the pile of stone-carved bones and stag antlers strewn beneath Him, the other 
    gripping the edge of a large trough inviting offerings beneath the statue. Scattered across the dirt 
    and broken stone are countless, oily stygian feathers and chunks of carrion left by the crows which 
    roost here in the vine-covered half-roof, their gleeful caws filling the air as one of the birds 
    occasionally swoops down to perch upon the statue of its collective spirit to affectionately rub its 
    beak against the stone. Behind the statue, an archway leads to an enclosed section of the temple, 
    shrouded in darkness as shadowy figures flit beyond the threshold. 

    Encircled by the revered Idols.
    Shrouded in gloom, the feral turmoil of wyrden foliage sprawls outwards from the courtyard into this 
    easterly niche, the ground soft and spongy with a thick blanket of mauve and virid moss and other 
    varieties of soft ground-cover. The presence of a swarm of insects and small creatures is evident 
    here, the buzzing of wasps and clicking of beetles heard amongst the clapping of bat wings, silvery 
    spiderwebs catching the wan illumination of shadowfire sconces in every nook and cranny. Against the 
    fissured stone wall, a worn, partially-crumbled sculpture depicts an awe-inspiring scene: entangled 
    in a manner bespeaking an unbreakable unity, renditions of a hulking beetle, a giant bat, an immense,
    eight-legged spider and an enormous wasp surround the steady form of a gargantuan, august scorpion, 
    the majestic insect's massive tail arching protectively over the idols surrounding it. A live 
    scorpion, much smaller than its portrayal in stone, perches upon the rim of an offering basin held 
    aloft upon a pedestal at the base of the statue, its sleek, chitin-ensconced form still and waiting, 
    ever watchful as it basks in the darkness of the stone.

    A secluded, grounded chamber.
    Enclosed within the east wing of the temple, the walls of this chamber are squared with rounded 
    corners, the ceiling of moderate height. The ground is of packed soil, stepping stones leading 
    through the chamber to the curving stairwell set into the eastern wall. A cluster of sedge has taken 
    root within a depression against the southern wall, a wide, glassless window widened by several 
    missing stones allowing enough light for the feather-fronded ferns and small wyrden wildflowers 
    interspersed among the bladed foliage. The entablature below the ceiling hosts a myriad of miniature,
    carved stone ravenwood trees, the small sculptures bravely surviving throughout the ages, despite 
    the sprawl of moss that has nearly overtaken them.

    Ancient ravenwood amidst a half-ruined garden.
    This corner of the temple is helplessly overgrown with wyrden flora, all manners of shrubs, ferns, 
    vines, mosses and brambles covering every inch of ground. Climbing wyrden rose vines cling to the 
    half-ruined stone walls, permeating the air with their lovely, dark scents. The western wall has 
    been broken through by an ancient ravenwood, the gnarled tree even bursting through the temple roof. 
    Though smaller than its father, the Master Tree, this ravenwood's swarthy bark crawls with shadows, 
    and its clacking, iridescent-mauve leaves sing a wyrden melody as wind whistles through the jagged 
    gaps in the stone it has caused. 

    Derelict stores of spiritual implements.
    Half-ruined tables and shelves of granite are strewn across the broken stone ground here, covered 
    with all manners of ritualistic tools and commodities. Fine mounds of dust, presumably once bundles 
    of dried herbs and other organic matter, are scattered across the tables, the wooden crates which 
    once stored them long-since disintegrated. Athames, stone basins, now-brittle bone-knives and rusted 
    metal chests rest upon granite storage shelves, and within a collection of stone crates are stored 
    threadbare cloth bags holding runestones and and the remnants of bones. The implements of shamans, 
    wiccans, druids and other oracular vocations are all intermingled, and sturdy tables provide 
    surfaces upon which to prepare further materials.

    A meditative sanctuary deep within the temple.
    Cracked flagstones are pressed into the dirt ground, few and far between. The dirt itself is packed 
    hard, though patches of grass and small plants have sprouted here and there, tiny wyrden flowers 
    colouring the otherwise bleak ground. An overhang shelters the area, draped with thick ivy that 
    cascades to provide further seclusion, muting most sounds save for the foliage's gentle rustling as 
    a breeze passes through the temple. Silks and furs have been thrown across the ground, offering 
    places of rest and meditation, and a shallow basin in their midst allows the burning of incense and 
    herbs. Deep alcoves along the eastern wall shelter worn benches, and stone sconces carved with 
    subtle knotwork burn with dark shadowflame between them. A sense of tacit reminiscence suffuses the 
    sanctuary, the lingering aromas of incense prone to lull one into a state of deep contemplation and 
    silent communion.

    An athenaeum of ancient scriptures.
    Undoubtedly once sheltering a monumental collection of knowledge, this forlorn chamber lies 
    partially in ruins, its ancient, deteriorating shelves scarcely touched for centuries. Once-sturdy 
    wooden cabinets now stand irreparably broken, their contents all but disintegrated with only a few 
    scrolls and tattered tomes left intact. Chipped slate tables stand adamantly against the rounded 
    walls over which a scattering of ivy vines have found their hold, while low stone bookshelves stand 
    perpendicular to each other, dividing the chamber into quarters. Fine spiderwebs have been woven 
    into every corner, their inhabitants awaiting patiently within the centre of their masterpieces. A 
    stone-wrought chandelier, carved directly from the granite ceiling, wields brackets filled with 
    small, pale flames, sufficiently illuminating the athenaeum. A knotwork pattern encircles the 
    ceiling, the weaving, infinite lines serving as the only adornment for the otherwise simple chamber, 
    reminiscent of past centuries and the knowledge garnered over an age.

    Archive of the Foretellings.
    The expanse of this circular chamber is perhaps one of the least-ruined within the ancient temple, 
    its stone surfaces smooth and barely creviced by age. Knotwork patterns and ancient, illegible 
    scripts are carved into the swarthy granite floor, worn now but still retaining a fraction of their 
    esoteric beauty. In each of the cardinal directions, alcoves have been carved into the walls and 
    fitted with black-granite shelves, the contents of which have unfortunately not withstood the test 
    of time as well as the chamber itself. Tattered and faded scrolls and compendiums are still lined 
    upon them, threadbare ribbons and brittle leather covers barely surviving their sheer age. In the 
    centre of the room stands an austere, rounded shrine table, perched upon which is a simple pedestal 
    of petrified ravenwood. The shrine itself, otherwise a solid block of stone, is inset with shelves, 
    offering security for sacred texts and scriptures. Unobtrusive scones hang upon the walls between 
    the alcoves, pale shadowflames providing just enough light to read and write by, their occasional 
    flickering casting shadows darting throughout the chamber.

    Alcove of the Augural Council.
    Spacious with its lofty, angled ceiling, the walls of this extensive chamber are lined with tall, 
    narrow windows, a vista of the wyrden realm visible beyond. Tattered, threadbare cloth hangs in 
    front of the openings, allowing the breeze to pass through whilst muffling the sounds of the forest, 
    even as a spill of thorny vines has crept into the chamber to entirely engulf half of the wall. 
    Evidently a chamber for gathering, a circle of low stone benches surrounds a central basin, the wide,
    shallow bowl low upon the floor and still blackened from the burning of various herbs. Thin pillars 
    carved of dark, glittering granite surround the benches in a larger circle, holding aloft the 
    ceiling. Each column has been carved with an ancient symbol stained white, the strange markings 
    facing inwards as though to ward the gathered, or perhaps to provide guidance and inspiration whilst 
    matters are discussed.

    A lofty respite claimed by ivy.
    Possibly once intended to be a private sanctuary within the temple, a sense of contemplation and 
    personal meditation lingers over the chamber, itself uncluttered and open. The southern wall has 
    partially crumbled away, leaving a sizeable rift in the stone. Sensing its opportunity as the Wyrd 
    is wont to do, a burst of dark purple ivy has laid claim to the cleft, all but concealing the broken 
    stone in its aubergine voraciousness and lining the opening with a leafy veil that partially 
    obstructs the view of the vast Glomdoring forest beyond. An opening in the opposite wall reveals a 
    stairwell leading down to the temple proper, the muffled caws of crows echoing up from the temple 
    grounds. A suspended stone brazier hangs from the centre of the ceiling, wafts of sage and pine 
    lingering around the ashes within, the scent embedded in the sparse, flat furs still cast over the 
    chamber floor. 

    Remnants of a weathered study.
    There is a moderate breeze here. Perhaps once a personal chamber, the past occupant of this space 
    evidently held a fondness for knowledge. Dark slate bookshelves have been pressed against each wall, 
    save for the western, in which a resting alcove has been hollowed out. The bench within has been 
    carved with ancient scriptures, the language strange and unfamiliar. A lectern is stationed against 
    another wall between two shelves, a hollow providing the storage of quills and ink bottles. Part of 
    the floor aside the stairwell has partially collapsed, chunks of stone not quite fallen but held 
    only by virtue of other fragments. Nonetheless, a stone bannister carved with dutifully watchful 
    crows surrounds the stairwell, which curls up around the wall as well as descends to the chamber 

    Hallowed circle of ritual communion.
    A light cover of clouds hides the sky in a sheet of white. Open to the vast expanse of the skies, 
    the ritual circle of the temple is clearly as ancient as the temple itself, a weighted sense of age 
    blanketing the open chamber. The colonnade continues to encircle the open space, wyrden saplings 
    taken root between the pillars, whose surfaces have been eroded by wind and rain, the carvings upon 
    them no longer distinguishable. A palpable veil of darkness shrouds the chamber, the shadows 
    themselves stirring with anticipation as unseeable dark figures flicker within them; evidence of the 
    presence of the Spirits, and perhaps other, watchful things within the realm of darkness. The limbs 
    of ancient trees loom above, framing the firmament with their jagged foliage and gnarled branches; 
    their leaves lay scattered across the ground upon which is carved a deep ritual circle, mystical 
    runes carved at the cardinal points in an unknowable language. The circle is slightly slanted 
    inwards, deep grooves leading from the outer edges to convene in the centre, where a deep depression 
    might collect any fluid shed within. Indeed, moss hued a deep mauve sprouts between the cracks in 
    the ground, as do foreboding, twisted ferns and grasses, hued curiously dark as though their fare 
    were not always of the conventional nourishment. A lingering sense of other presences pervades the 
    sacred chamber, as though the transient visitors of past summonings have never truly departed and 
    instead remain, waiting - but for what, one can scarcely presume. An altar of white bones and black 
    roses stands here, burning with cold shadowfire.

    Carved from black marble, the architecture of this altar is tribal in make and shape, with ornaments 
    of bone and black roses marking its significance. Highly polished skeletons of unknown creatures 
    wrap their way around the base of this ritual table, fitting together perfectly like puzzle pieces. 
    Petals from black roses dot the construction of the altar in a spiraling pattern, culminating in a 
    wreath of of the same flower that encircles the table. The entirety of the structure is ablaze with 
    shadowfire, its purple flames licking into the air around it the way a serpent hisses at passersby 
    to warn of its presence.
    It weighs about 37 pounds.
    It has the following aliases: altar.
    Are these beautiful, magnificent rooms not enough to count as awesome for you? Check it, y'all ain't even ready for this:

    You reach for the shadows and they respond, delivering a creature of fur and darkness into your 
    outstretched hand. With a gesture, you shred its flesh, and, bones in hand, you cast them lightly to 
    the ground to read their portents carefully.
    Many of the bones tumble into random positions, but two do not - they fall against one another, 
    stood upright, forming a very crude triangle.

    You tilt your head back and look up at the sky.
    High above, a single bat flaps its wings and cascades past, letting out a thin cry as it disappears 
    from view.

    There are a bunch of variations of each and MAN I AM SO HYYYYYYPE.
  • Re: Speedwalking utilities

    Ejderha said:
    Kalaneya said:
    Warning: am really horrible noob at coding. I  have psymet gliding, not sprint. Is there an easy way to convert the sprinting function to gliding?
    When I went from warrior to psymet monk, I just added a Lusternia side alias:


    All the sprint commands you send to Lusternia will be changed to glide, and it's easy to change back. No coding involved, and I never had any issues.
    Works like a charm, thank you!
  • Re: Lack of Raves VI: Rave Today, Tweet Tomorrow

    not coming in second for Knowledge Seal for the 5th time + Glom getting guildhalls after 9 months gestation = best Lusternian weekend ever
  • Re: Thanks for the RP (Version 1.0 Alpha)

    @Zephyra Anytime!