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Messages - Shiokara
321
« on: December 18, 2009, 02:42:47 am »
While I originally thought only to suggest the pawnbroker be switched to the large-city version, I now think that, perhaps, all vendors should be switched to be large-city vendors. Here's why:
1) Vehl is one of the two starting towns, and it isn't fair that the Hempstead starters should get better sell/buy rates, even if it is just a few true (it adds up). This is particularly true for those races who can't go to Hempstead.
2) Lore-wise Vehl's population is only 2,000 people less than Hempstead (47,000 to 49,000 respectively), so it makes a lot of sense to me that Vehl should be considered a "large city" vendor area. It's also a port town, and despite its crooked history (which one may argue is the cause of higher prices), I would argue that a lot of haggling would happen in such a culture such that prices would work out to about the same.
322
« on: November 26, 2009, 04:07:43 am »
Should one follow vengeance or virtue? I wonder if the two are as different as you think? No, do not cast my words out as the bitter speech of a chattel, nor should you cast them out because they come from blackened lips. It is true that the author of this piece is a dark elf, but it is not true that we are inherently an evil people. It is our betrayed and unfortunate culture that turns us this way. But fear not! My Toranite saviors kept me from this grotesque fate—my Toranite enslavers. Do not cast this book aside. I assure you that I have no motive in writing it, except to record it as my own personal history. Everything you are about to read is true. I have no reason to lie in a book. I merely want to record my existence as a part of history, a brutal history that it seems now the Toranites would like to forget as much as I would, casting out the Justicers. But I cannot allow them to forget. No, they cannot be allowed to receive a clean slate while the memory of what happened to me still lives. This is my story.
I was born five years before the second coming of one Sinthar Bloodstone, in 1336 by the common calendar, or so a caretaker in my clan told me when we were in fetters together. My birth was one marked to be difficult, as soon afterward, a political war broke out between two noble families in my birth city. The family my clan was associated with lost, and was destroyed, mostly assassinated by others of our race. I am sure you cannot imagine such a race that would destroy its own brothers and sisters for mere political gain and power, or could you?
My parents, I was told, were destroyed. The only reason I survived was because my young age made me useful. I could be raised to be a servant—an intermediary between the winning family’s Dark Elves and their surface-slaves. Reader be aware that the average Dark Elf does not even see you as sentient, and know that I, the writer, do not believe this. If I did, why would I bother writing this at all?
It should be said that despite my usefulness, I was not quite old enough to manage even the lightest chores. Thinking back, I feel ashamed, because working has been so ingrained on my person. I am a hard worker. Anyway, the dark elves appointed me my caretaker, a servant in my house who was too old to pose any real threat to them. Oh, how lowly a state I was in, my servant now my superior, the being that assured my life.
He was the one who taught me Dark Elven. After all, a servant who could not take orders and do them correctly is useless. And so I began doing menial chores for various clans related to the noble family. I did not even want to exact revenge on my enslavers. How the Prince of Hate must have cursed me in the heavens for this! Even though I was beaten often, ruining my skin—the pride of our people—I could not feel the hatred of vengeance for my enslavers who allowed me to live. Hatred of their work and whips, sure, but not for vengeance, for it was not my place. I served in this way for fifty years. Though it is a small span for my race, it was not easy.
I learned much in this time. How to hide, move without a sound, steal, and pick locks. Do not judge me for knowing these unsavory skills! When you have felt the chain’s biting grip at your wrists. When you have been whipped for being too noticeably attractive at dinner parties and blamed for detracting from your master’s looks. When you have been beaten for stepping too loudly and interrupting The Silent Tongue, then you can judge me for the content of my knowledge.
Yet, readers, vengeance did come, or was it justice? One night, while a clan related to the noble family was raiding the surface, hunting the surface races like you may hunt deer or foxes, a small group of Toranites found them and slaughtered the lot. My caretaker was killed as well, being too old to look innocent, yet I found myself saved again by extreme youth. Hindsight tells me that they felt combat with me would be dishonorable, as I was a non-threat. Even embittered by my culture, I wondered if I was saved.
This would not be the case, of course. Instead of being slaughtered on the spot, the Toranites brought me to trial. Now, that I have lived with surface laws I wish I could have known the things that were said of me in that trial, but they are lost, for at the time I knew not the common tongue. It was clear what my punishment was, though. Hard labor. In short, I merely became a slave to another people—people who were not Dark Elves. Where before I was an intermediary of sorts, now I was the lowest of the low.
You might ask here, how? How did these Toranites, champions of justice, allow such an event to pass? Read carefully because the answer is important. At the time, the Toranite faith was not what it is today. No. For when there is great light in the world, this just casts deeper shadows. For the Toranites, these were the Justicers, great and terrible. They did not believe they worked through the law, but that they were the law. Thus, the trial that they gave me was their own trial, controlled wholly by them, and not in the least fair. After all, should the accused not understand the nature of his crime? Should he not, at least, know what it is his accusers are saying? I believe he does. Still, one should note that what was done to me was not actually illegal, which, perhaps, is the greatest crime of all.
My new masters were not so high as the Justicers, but they were sympathetic towards their beliefs, or perhaps just envious of their power. It is hard to tell with only the power of hindsight. Nonetheless, my sentence was clear. I was sent to a farm in Mistone to work off my mysterious sentence.
I was shipped from Hurm to Leringard. Oh, reader, how I regret not jumping off that ship, you will never know. Yes, I behaved, but I wanted to live. I had seen my new captors kill Dark Elves without hesitation, and I was sure I would die if I drowned or protested. How many hours, days, or weeks I spent crossing that sea, I will never be sure. My age is but estimation.
The first months in the fields were the hardest. My captors made me work in the sun when I was used to the darkness of the Deep. I tired quickly and was beaten often. Despite being a hard worker, I simply did not know what my captors wanted, which also put me under the whip more times than I would like to recount.
When I did know my work, however, I worked harder than any other farmhand, which earned my master’s eye. He adopted the wisdom of The Great Leader and decided a slave that can communicate is better than none at all. The hypocrisy of it all was overwhelming—to be treated like an animal, and taught to speak at the same time. It was more than one should have to bear, but do not take pity on me, reader, for I would be given a voice.
I would be given a voice by a local cleric of Toran. Every Wedlar it was, under the shade of a tree, a cleric, pink and good-natured, trying to teach us common and the Quartos Toranis. I remember one speech in particular to this day:
Today, we’re going to talk about Sacrifice for you must “Be ready to give of yourself in time, in labor, and if Toran wills it, in life’s blood.” There are so many ways one can sacrifice. Some of His faith give away their money and possessions. For you, this is not a problem, for you have no money and no possessions, so you must serve in another way. You must lend assistance, a strong back. Remember that there are large sacrifices and small ones. Your master must sacrifice his food, his space, to keep you all healthy. As such, you repay him in the only way you can. With your labor.
“Be ready to give of yourself in time, in labor, and if Toran wills it, in life’s blood,” he repeated it again, as we hooted and hollered. What did he know of sacrifice? Still, the master’s plan worked. I learned common.
Many years passed. Too many to count. Though a few events stand out.
The cleric stopped coming a few years after he started. There were also fewer guards around now that I think back, but at the time no one noticed because we were broken into routine. Some workers died mysteriously, but that was nothing new. We just thought they were victims of the master’s temper. Or, some rumored, his appetite.
Then came the dust. It ruined the master. It ruined us all. Many died, whether it was from starvation or dust inhalation. Had I not been so accustomed to a life of survival I, too, would have perished. These were the worst years by far.
Our master died. In his old age, the debris was just too much for him, the stress of losing everything he—we—worked for, too great. His son took over. He was ruthless—scared of losing his land to uppity slaves, no doubt. He beat us frequently. Reminded us with every lash where our place was. In that respect, he was an artist, carving and molding out of our very bodies.
This is, perhaps, where I was luckiest. Dark Elf pride, though hardly belonging to me, still seemed there. I could yes the new master to death, work hard, and still keep myself in tact. That was when it happened, the shift that would lead to my escape. It is marked in history as the Justicers being removed from the church. My master’s family fell from grace. He could no longer entertain, nor could he afford to keep his slaves with his crops consistently ruined. Security was loose, and I planned my escape.
One night, for night is still when I feel the most at home on the surface, when master was sitting for his evening meal, I snuck in. It was hard with the house’s old floorboards, every creak resounding a thousand times between my pulsing temples, but I managed to creep up the stairs to his bedchamber. I stole so much, though not as much as he stole from me, just enough to travel and not be burned alive. I knew that if I ran now, the master could not afford to hunt me too far. I knew then, that I had to go. Just go. Not anywhere in particular, or for any end. Just go. Freedom.
I ran. Do not judge me. You would have too. I ran and listened and used what I stole to buy information. Fort Vehl was the place to be. There was a Rofirein Sanctuary, but there was also a lot of need for hard workers. The debris gave me motive to travel, and a reason for bundling up in scarves—breathing too much of it was deadly.
One day on my travels, the sun came out. A day like any other for me, except hotter, but it was a turn I didn’t recognize.
I found Vehl abuzz in activity. There was work for me. My particular talents left me well suited to the kind of work required in the city: locksmithing, panhandling, pickpocketing, and labor. Always labor. The Dark Ages were over. The scarves no longer needed. I just was.
Free.
Free of Vengeance. What is there to avenge? I am here, my family long gone, my age left in the passage between Hurm and Leringard. I am a Dark Elf, that is certain, but I am not, perhaps, Dark Elven.
The Quartos Toranis. Valor. I stand before you, exposed, a Dark Elf against overwhelming stereotypes. “Sometimes, it is to stand for something in the face of ridicule.” Empathy. “Every person is unique in the eyes of the Great Leader”. Read this as every man, in the Quartos, but know that I see it truly as every person and do not judge you, reader. Conviction is born of trial. This life, these years, have been one great trial. Though, perhaps I have had no trial at all. That is to say, I have never appeared in the courts for the harms done me. Humility. I have had my share. Slavery is the ultimate lesson in humility. The whip taught me it most every day. Sacrifice. Do not even talk to me of Sacrifice. “Honorable combat, when it comes, begins with valor and ends with restraint.” In this case, I have suffered far too much honorable combat for my restraint was long. Yes. Restraint. Perhaps I know restraint best of all.
*Aunlyn stops writing here and closes the book. It is titled, Accounts of a Slave-Life: A Victim’s Story to Vengeance and Virtue.*
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« on: November 24, 2009, 05:12:23 am »
Zahid spends his days after tending to the displaced from the Arms fire in Fort Wayfare, caring for what individuals he can. He spends time healing physical wounds, but often asks the refugees about deeper emotional wounds, and whether or not they'd like to talk. "This tsunami was terrible on everyone. Terrible on our bodies, sure, but worst on our sense of safety, our routine, our old lives. Now is the time to aid not only our city, but our thoughts, our hearts. Come, tell me of your problems, and let us see if we can make some new friends in the process--rebuilding our society as we rebuild the houses that contain it." Zahid invites adventurers and citizens alike to come and voice their worries and sorrows. He encourages them to take a break from all the work, so they can mend their spirit for the tough times ahead. //Event: http://forums.layonara.com/calendar.php?do=getinfo&e=14882&day=2009-11-25
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« on: November 07, 2009, 02:39:07 pm »
Name: Git Age: 33 Gender: Male Race: Half-Giant Class: Barbarian Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Deity: None. The circumstances surrounding the birth of Edward Beasley were never to be made light of. In fact, they were never to be talked about. End of story. Nonetheless, there is a story there for those who would gossip about such things. Edwin Beasley, a wealthy merchant (and Edward's father), was traveling between Fort Llast and Hlint with his supply wagon, wife (although the trips were dangerous, and they made Edwin nervous, it was a family tradition to travel as a family. His wife would have it no other way), and a couple guards for security when they were attacked by a group of giants. At the sight of the brutes Edwin passed out almost immediately. The guards were killed, the wagon destroyed, and Edwin's wife was taken. Edwin was left for dead, the giants not even noticing him, as he offered no resistance--just another body on the ground. Edwin staggered into Hlint wanting revenge and his wife. He looked all around the Wild Surge Inn, the Tobur Xin Smithy, and other places adventurers frequent, gathering a crew to help him. The adventurers were successful, killing many giants and retrieving Edwin's wife, but not without damage. Edwin's wife was with child. After carrying the child to term, Edwin's wife, Alberta Beasley, died during the birth. The child, obviously not Edwin's, was completely hairless. Thus, Edward Beasley entered the world. Edwin hated Edward and wanted to destroy him the moment he was born, but when Alberta died, Edwin found he couldn't kill the boy. Even if he blamed the baby for his wife's death. Even if the child was monstrous. In the end, Edwin could not bring himself to destroy Edward because Edward was the last living piece of Alberta--his only connection to her. This connection did not prevent Edwin from abusing Edward where he could. After a few months Edwin left Hlint with a wagon and Edward making a long journey, which would take years, for Port Hempstead. He figured that if he went to Port Hempstead and left Edward there alone that Edward would be destroyed due to the city's laws against half-giants, he knew because he heard about Hempstead's laws from other merchants and adventurers in town. The Hempstead city watch would do the job Edwin couldn't bring himself to do. He would travel by ox and wagon to prevent the rumors from following him to Hempstead. After all, once Edward was destroyed there was nothing to prevent him settling in a nice place like Hempstead. Discretion was the key. Despite the constant abuse of being hit, verbally assaulted, and being forced to pull the wagon with the ox that was also harnessed to it (even though Edward was merely crawling and not strong enough to pull anything when they first began their journey from Hlint), Edward grew up loving his father because he didn't know of any other possible relationship with another and there were times when Edwin almost seemed to tolerate his existence. In truth, Edwin grew more and more fond of Edward as they traveled and as Edward grew. The thing was that Edward was useful. Like one time a wagon wheel had broken, Edward was able to life the cart so that Edwin could remove the old wheel and set the new one in place. By the time Edwin was nearing Hempstead he wasn't thinking of having Edward destroyed, but as passing Edward off as his son. He could teach him letters and math, and maybe pass him off as being slow. He was slow. Who would suspect a half-giant living in Hempstead? Edwin's first step was to find discreet, patient scholars, which he found easily enough with the right amount of true. At first Edward learned his letters, numbers, and words like anyone else, but then his progress in the common tongue came to a halt--the larger the word or more complex the problem, the steeper the hill. Edward liked stories, but he hated reading them. He liked to live in them instead. His favorite stories were about the ocean--about pirates and admirals and mermaids and exotic islands with buried treasure. His favorite thing to do was to go to the Argo Vlin'Dolan wharf and watch the ships go out and come in. He liked to pretend he was one of those adventurers until the real world interrupted. "Young Master Edward, we must continue with our lesson." "We must? Why must?" "It is important." "This important." "Your lessons are more important." "No." One day, during a particularly difficult lesson (the difference between there, they're, and their), Edward was thirteen and fed up. "How you write, 'There are three theres in common?'" "I do not know, Young Master Edward." Edward didn't like that name at all anymore. First off, he was not young. He was taller and wider and stronger than his tutor by far. Second, he couldn't see himself master of anything what with being trapped at his desk. Third, the name Edward just didn't fit anymore. None of it was right. Edward got upset. He reached up and brought his arms down in frustration, smashing the desk to pieces shouting, "Freedom! Master of the sea!" His teacher, scared and looking to stay in control, lost it. "Oh! Oh! You're a right Git aren't you?" "Git! Master of the sea!" Git liked his new name. It was easy. "No, no," said the teacher, deflating, "You are not actually a Git." But Git was Git now and he ran up to his teacher, clapping him on the back repeatedly, thanking him for the new name shouting, "Git! Master of the sea!" And, "Git, fit." Because Git rhymed with fit and the name felt right. No tutor would ever go to the Beasley house again. Edwin was scared. Edwin had right to be scared to because rumors started spreading about 'that Beasley boy' all around Hempstead. If this continued the second business Edwin had built up (Buy Beasley!) would fold. Once you were the 'wrong sort' in his circles you might as well move to a corner (though good with arithmetic, Edwin was never very good with geometry--candles were candle-shaped, who cared about squares and rectangles?). He mostly loved Edward now. Mostly. But the boy was already bigger than he was (by a foot or two) and surely bigger than everyone his age. Maybe it was time for him to claim his own stake in the world. The posse of townsfolk had Git cornered. His father was among them shouting, "Get out of here! Get out of here, monster!" He did not understand. He pleaded, "How I get out? You have my back against wall." His back was against a wall in the Argo Vlin'Dolan wharf. He had been watching ships as usual when the mob approached. "Well you could just eat us, monster!" "You might as well, you got the arms for to rip us up-" "And the teeth to chew us down!" finished another. Git's dad was still shouting, "Get out of here," a pause, "monster!" The crowd picked up the chant of "Mo-onste-er!" Git looked around, trapped and scared. He began to cry. "Mo-onste-er! Mo-onst-er!" Why? Why was he a monster? For years he lived here. He just wanted to watch the ships and hear what news came from the sea. The Sea, he thought. He looked around and spotted a manageable boat not far away tied to the pier. No longer feeling trapped his vulnerability turned into pure rage. "Not monster!" He wailed, charging a beeline for the small boat, bowling people over, hardly stumbling over them. "Git! Master of the sea!" And with that Git ran for the boat jumped in, kicked hard at the side of the ship that was tethered to the pier, leaving that piece behind, and began his adventure. Behind him the crowd rushed ahead. Through the shouts and hollers, Git thought he heard one voice stand it. It said, "Get out of here, son!" As the boat began to drift away, Git picked up two oars and paddled like a madman away from the port. Edwin wiped a tear from his eye. This was for the best. With a change of motto (Beasley makes it easy!) business would be back to usual. On the open ocean Git looked around, wondering which way would take him to the kind of adventures he hear the sailors speak of. He spotted a dark group of clouds in the distance. Sitting back down at the oars Git steered the ship towards the clouds half shouting, half singing "Git! Man of the sea! Git! Master of the sea!" At each shout of "Git!" he would pull back hard on the oars so it came out like a grunt. Git looked around excitedly in the middle of the storm. The waves tossed the boat effortlessly. This was the kind of storm sailors talked about! Then a huge wave came and smashed the ship into splinters and Git with it. Then, it was black. When Git awoke his head hurt and he was coughing water. The world was still black, and he passed out again. The next time he woke up the world had color again. Git looked around. He was in a wooden room with a small circular window. The whole room seemed to move. A man looked at him as he lifted himself up on his elbows. "So yer awake then, eh? Good." "Where-" "Yer in a cabin of the Lady's Whistle. I'm Dax, her captain. We pulled ya up outta the nets last fishin' trip," said Dax. Git liked the name Dax. He liked Dax. And he was in a cabin! In another port! He made it! "Git! Master of the sea!" Git shouted. "Master'f debts mer like it! You owe me, mate." "Owe you? I have no things." "Ya got arms. Big 'uns too. Yer werk fer me ta pay yer debt like. You know a lot about fishin'?" "Only what load and unload sailors say." Git had a lot to learn. "Well, it's a start. An' I found ya a good way offshore so ya had ta sail from somewhere, eh? Ya werk fer me now, hear?" "I work for you good!" and with that Git bounded out of bed and fell. "Not so fast 'er, big guy." Git was 33. He had been working for Dax for twenty years now and knew everything he needed about sailing. What he knew he needed was a crew and a ship of his own, but he could never afford them. Any time he asked Dax about how much he owed him Dax replied, Ya owe me yer life'n don't ya ferget it! Ya werk fer me! Git couldn't argue. He would've been dead without Dax. Still, Git hadn't asked him this fishing season yet. Maybe this time would be different. While the crew of the Lady's Whistle was waiting to pull up the nets, Git walked into Dax's cabin. "Dax?" "What is it, Git?" "This trip last one, then I paid?" "Ya look here, Git. I saved ya. Way I see it is now I own ya. You'd be dead without me. Dead!" "This not life." "What's not life? Ya live good with me, doncha? No one else'd treat a monster like ya as good as me." "What you call me?" "A monster. It's what ya are, init?" Memories of leaving Hempstead flashed before Git's eyes. His anger blinded him as he relived those moments. He shouted, "Not monster!" and charged forward, knocking Dax, unconscious, down. "Git! Master of the sea!" The crew rushed in from the commotion and looked horrified at the scene. Git turned and shouted, "You raise fish nets. You set course, Fort Vehl. You steer ship. After I raise anchor, I watch Dax. Any one get funny idea I won't laugh. Now, move it!" The crew moved it. They moved it all the way to Fort Vehl. Git kept Dax locked in his cabin. Any time Dax would shout, "Let me out, Git! You owe me!" Git would say, "No. We even. You save Git life and Git let you live. Life for life is even," and at that Dax would quiet down. When the ship docked at Vehl, Git let Dax out of the room. "I'll turn ya in, I will." "Want to try? Get past me." Dax backed down and Git left the Lady's Whistle. As soon as he did, though, she pulled away from the pier. Dax and crew shouted Monster and every other word they could think to hurt him. Git didn't even turn around, just looked excitedly at the grungy town. It was time for Git, master of the sea, to live up to his name. He needed a crew and a ship. One thing was certain. After working and following the laws and rules of other people, Git was certain the only way to be a true master of the sea would be to follow his own laws. Do what he thought suited him at the time, no matter the consequences. The sea certainly had no consideration for man's law. Anything could happen there. He thought, I look for me, now! and stepped forward into the town. //For clarity I want to state that Git's father's wealth will in no way affect Git Also, for the player who wishes to use Git, I once worked with Ycleption to see if this character would be ready for approval, and his advice was that there should be more class support, so please feel free to rock that out however you like. 
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« on: November 07, 2009, 03:30:32 am »
Name: Perri Crosby
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 26
Alignment: True Neutral
Class: Cleric
Deity: Aragen
Domains: Knowledge / Travel
Perri was walking through Vehl. He discovered a figure in an alleyway lying down. Upon walking closer to him he saw that he was a man and he was bleeding. Perri did not know if the man could move, but the man did not move. The man was still conscious.
The man said, "Thank the Gods. Len' me a han' will you? Some runt jus' mugged me an' made off with my dough."
Perri, standing very still, looked around to see whom the man was talking to.
"Com'on! I-agh," the man tried to life himself up. He failed and fell down in blood. "I need some help here. I can pay you." The man put his head down in the dirt.
Perri opened a burlap sack and pulled out a book, a quill, and some ink. He wrote, Subject is male. Found in Fort Vehl on an alley off of, Perri looked around for a marker of where he was, some houses and a general store. Subject called for help. He is bleeding. I can see it by the way the pool of blood is growing under him.
When Perri rustled through the sack, the man lifted his head. "What are you doing? Please! Just help me." The man coughed.
Perri looked over the book, into the man's face, then wrote, Subject called for help again, then he coughed. When he coughed blood came down the side of his mouth.
"Pits, what's wrong with you! Can't you hear me? I'm going to die if you don't help me. Can't you hear me? I'm going to die!"
Perri wrote, Subject spoke for the third time. He stated the inevitability of his own death. His pupils are smaller now. There is perspiration on his forehead.
"You're going to burn, do you hear me? For the Gods' sakes are you deaf?"
Subject is using words that possess a more negative, insulting connotation. No one has come to help him. His breathing is very labored. The pool of blood is expanding more slowly.
The man's eyes did not leave Perri for a moment. After thirty minutes (Perri was counting in his head) with no change Perri wrote, Subject is dead. His breathing stopped thirty minutes ago. Perri finished writing; put the book, quill, and ink back in the sack; and left the man lying dead in the alley.
Days later Perri was in the One-Eyed Harpy. An old newspaper was on his table and he was writing the dead man's obituary into his book. Perri could have the subject's name and basic information now. When he was finished, he left the soggy paper exactly as he found it.
He sent his report to the temple in Bydell Castle on the next ship to Mariner's Hold, to be taken by carrier pigeon thereafter.
***
Perri Crosby does not have any living family members or ties to Layonara. His mother and father died in a raid on the Gypsy Camp (featured on the Alindor map) and he was dropped as a burden at Bydell Castle. The events left him emotionally disaffected by everything around him. He understands human customs because they are written, but has little knowledge aside from texts and observation. This disaffection eventually drove what caretakers he had to eventually disown him, but at the same time made him a very attractive candidate to be a collector in the order of Aragen. Thus, using logic, and not stating his reasons he joined the order. This would be the last effect he would have on the world.
Note: Perri Crosby is intended as an RP challenge for anyone who is willing to take it. He is intended to be an extremely devout Aragenite. His alignment is True Neutral because he remains completely removed from all events. He records solely facts, and looks towards Aragen as The Great Collector. Keeping in line with Aragen's dogma, this character should probably not speak. In the event one does go out in a party with him, I would suggest remaining in the periphery, and never heal, buff, or do anything. If someone is looking for a character to level and explore the world beyond RP, I do not recommend this character, but as a player, I have always been attracted to those characters who exist in the extremes. With that said, Enjoy.
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« on: September 24, 2009, 01:45:13 am »
There is one thing I'm curious about with the character stable, when characters are submitted by a player, is it only the DMs, CAs, and person who wishes to take the character who are allowed to make the appropriate edits? Or are these characters to be understood as 'open source' in a sense, editable by anyone? I'm asking because I'm aware of two things. First, the author of the original character gives sovereignty of the character up upon submitting him/her to the stable as per this rule: Once you submit the character, it belongs to the stable and no longer to the submitter (this is absolutely necessary in case a future player would like to have their character be apart of the world changing events of Layonara). The second rule seems to make it pretty clear that it's only the DMs, CAs, and new owner of the character that are making changes as it states:
Once you submit the character, all the edits will be done directly by the GM/CA team to make it immediately insert-able to the world (with the exception of the needed edits by the new player).
But I'm wondering if maybe making these characters more open source--to be edited by any member that has the time, will, and energy to do so--might be more helpful in the process of getting these characters ready? I have a particular character in mind, and it's the second thing I'm aware of, as he already has someone who wants to claim him but isn't ready. http://forums.layonara.com/character-stable/242202-fianon-poetr-not-ready.htmlThis character will take a lot of getting ready to do. First, the class split includes druid, a restricted class. Second the submission includes domains, which only clerics need be concerned about. Third, deity support is thin, and having something in the deity field requires a certain amount of devotion. I'm not saying a player could rework it to get approved without it having to be revised, but surface/mechanical issues could be addressed and might help take the load off the DMs and CAs in revision. After all, "We would like, as a community, to help these folks out and allow them a way to come join us," so why not open it up to all of us who can help (Rowana)? Best, Shio
328
« on: September 07, 2009, 10:27:28 am »
This is quite a small thing, and not something I expect to change, but it's an idea I had so I thought I might post it if it wasn't the kind of thing that would cause too much trouble.
I thought it might be nice to have the backpack customization, the one that's in robes section where it appears the character has a quiver, bow, bedroll, and pack on his back also inserted into the cloak customization screen.
I have two reasons for this: First, the backpack look that is currently in robes is colored off of the secondary cloth color and the primary leather color. This makes it slightly inconvenient for users who don't want their armor to share the same color as their backpack, something which seems it would be a more miscellaneous add-on. I noticed this on my Dwarf mainly because when I thought of making his pack visible it turned out to share the same gray/metallic tones I had for my armor.
The second reason is that having the backpack in the robes option makes it disappear if you change armors. If you had it in the cloaks section it could remain visible, or you could unequip it (say to take it off your back and look through it) and still have your armor on.
It might also make sense to have in the cloaks section as having the backpack customization and a cloak on create clipping problems.
Just some thoughts. I realize this is pretty much nitpicking, but if it's not too much trouble, something to think about?
329
« on: August 24, 2009, 01:53:06 am »
Agmundr Nokkadrumbear seems to be stuck with lower movement speed on West. I've tried resting, relogging, and getting my inventory weight to lower than my death sickness holding capacity and the debuff still hasn't disappeared.
There is a good chance this is related to my having a double death on Central and then being transferred to West both times and that status somehow sticking, although my stats are all back to normal after getting rid of the rez sickness.
Is there an easy fix for this that I'm missing? I just thought I'd bring it up.
330
« on: August 18, 2009, 12:45:08 am »
I just thought I'd start this for a bit of fun discussion. The subject line provides a fair enough summary of the argument, but I'll lay it out clearer here.
Have you ever met one of those people that insists their selfless actions or the selfless actions of others are actually selfish? They usually say that the only reason some people do good things for others is because afterward they can receive praise for those actions, or feel good about themselves knowing that they did a good thing. Thus, all altruistic actions become a means of self-gratification.
In the context of D&D the concept of altruism vs. selfishness is reflected by good vs. evil. In NWN a default good character has an 85 on the good meter. This has already been discussed extensively in another thread, but not in the terms of altruism vs. selfishness. Technically these characters would perform selfless acts 85% of the time and an occasional selfish act (maybe they smoke!) 15% of the time. But is this accurate? This discussion calls the existence, or legitimacy, of the 85% into question.
So what do you think? Does altruism exist? How does it play out in your own RP? Has your chaotic good mercenary slipped into an, "I'm going to get these items because I need them" or a, "What's in it for me" mindset? Do you ever find yourself thinking in the mind of your LG character how this may benefit you? Do you, yourself, feel good when your character does good things for other people? Why is this?
So I may as well get the ball rolling. I believe altruism exists. I think it is a logical fallacy, a kind of faulty cause and effect, to assume that just because I feel good after doing a selfless act that that means I did the selfless act because I knew it would make me feel good. This is not necessarily the case. The outcome of my feeling after the selfless act (or any act), in reality, is uncertain, and so to consider all actions selfish based upon the feeling one gets from performing them seems faulty to me.
So, what do you all think?
331
« on: July 11, 2009, 01:27:03 pm »
Annoyed at having to jump for his last posting, this posting is much lower than the last. However, since it is lower than the rest it doesn't need to contend for space. As such, the shaky writing is much larger.
[SIZE=18]Ta 'oom it may concrn,
Oi got two boxes'a aloe 'aht Oi'm willin' ta let go of at say 2000 true. Lemme know if ye wanna take 'em off ma 'ands an' we cn sit up a toime real propr loike.
-Nokka (Tha ugly one wi' tha patch'n tats)[/SIZE]
332
« on: June 29, 2009, 05:15:40 pm »
A boisterous Dwarf with an eyepatch can be heard laughing at The Scamp's Mug, pounding an ale down his throat. Anyone who listens hears:
Oi so 'at Vehl's a crude town a'right. Some bloke asked me ta dig up bodies loike an' I tol' 'im where 'e could stick 'at shovel if it pleased 'im. Let tha dead res' Oi say an' tha's why Oi went down ta 'dem crypts ta put'em ta res'. Well Oi'll be damned if I didn' meet someone down there a'ready! Name was Caradas'r some such thing an' 'e was real noble loike--a real hob-nobbler all hoigh and snootin' at parties--but seems 'e run into a bit-a-trouble 'cause 'e was 'n leathers an' not loike, noblewear.
'E was a roight 'nough stand-up guy though once Oi saved his hind a couple toimes. 'E even saved moine, too. We traveled a whoile Oi'd say. After the crypts we met some shoiny mage with a funny voice loike gravel 'r somethin'. Ye shoulda seen 'is face. Caradas scoffed loike Caradas does an' said what koinda man wears a dress loike, and tha man near hit tha roof--funny thing was we was outside, so tha roof was pretty hoigh even what it bein' tha sky an' all. Anyway, 'e wen' off ta kill dragons 'r some such thing an' Caradas an' Oi met some lass wearin' some noice blue get-up but covered in bandages loike a mummy.
Caradas seemed ta 'ave a thing fer 'er, so Oi didn't werk any o' my Dwarf charm on 'er 'r nothin' loike that. *he laughs* Anyway, we hit the sewers of this 'Empstead town and killed some fish-loike things what Caradas was really s'prised at. Was a noice 'nough toime, but Oi thought 'at was a funny place fer a date an' all, y'know, fer Caradas and the lass.
Anyway, Oi tell ye Oi ain' never felt the han' a the Battle Father on ma axe han' so strong as out 'ere. Oi give a prayer, loike, 'r a shout, y'know ta wake 'im up loike, an' 'e ain' e'en angry with me 'r nothin' 'e jus' guides ma han' all pow'rful loike an' soon the enemies 'r 'll dead. 'S great!
333
« on: June 29, 2009, 04:58:51 am »
*a note is posted slightly sideways and a little below eye level. It looks kind of unsecured, almost as if the person had to jump to post it. The writing is a little shaky*
Roight! Oi got two good boxes o' Skeleton Knuckles fer anyone 'oo wants 'em. Way I see it is ye post a proice Oi loike 'ere an' Oi'll get 'em ta ye all quick loike. Jes' tell me where ta meet ye. I reckon they'd make a noice necklace fer ye missus if ye want ta show 'er 'ow strong ye are 'r some such thing.
~ Agmundr Nokkadrumbaer
P.S. Oi put ma full name ta sound official loike, but if'n ye plan ta use it Oi'll 'ave yer toes, Oi will. Ye can call me Nokka, or Noks. Oi'll be tha ugly fella with tha patch an' tha tattoos loike.
334
« on: June 22, 2009, 04:13:35 am »
Hey. I know I can't submit for a chaotic neutral character until I have four months under my belt, but I have already had an idea for one and have written a character bio and everything for him.
Would it be possible for someone to take a look at it whenever they want, as casually as they like, just so I can work anything I have to out, so I can make the character approval go smoothly?
335
« on: June 14, 2009, 01:40:51 pm »
The town's gossips all know what the hottest story in town is. Rumors of Elastic (or Ellipsis, or was it Ephasia?), a fire-headed girl, sprout up in streets, inns, and dinner-table discussions of good, decent Hlint folk.
*overheard in the streets between two women talking at market*
"Did you hear the latest about Elastic?"
"No, what?"
"I heard she was spotted in town, twice! You wouldn't believe who she was askin' fer."
"Who?"
"A Duchess-"
"What?"
"She's lookin' fer a Duchess, I said."
"A Duchess, here?"
"That's what I said."
"Well, what's she lookin' round here for a Duchess for? A Duchess 's royalty! Ain't been no royalty 'round here a while. Must be mental."
"Mus' be. 'S sad really."
*In the Wild Surge Inn between old friends*
"You 'ear 'bout Ephasia?"
"Who? Oh!-you mean Ellipsis?"
"No, no. Ephasia, small lass, red hiar, walkin' 'round askin' for food an coin?"
"What, like a beggar?"
"Well no, 'cause if'n ya answer no, I hear she'll fight ya fer it."
"What a lil' girl? Ha-"
"Don't laugh, she'd fix you right on the floor!"
"Reckon she won't, I-"
"Beat a dwarf-"
"What? I never beat no dwarf!"
"She did, she-"
"She what?"
"-boxed him but good I hear."
"Tha's no beggar, 's a bandit! But she a girl you say? Young?"
"Yeah, yeah, real short-like, a kid."
"Well 'en no worries! Can't bother me in here! Barkeep, another round!"
*the men laugh*
"But s'r'ously," one says as he puts down his mug, "What's'is world comin' to, little girl gotta beat up dwarfs for food!"
*two farmers walking along a wall, repairing it when it needs repairing*
"You hear about that girl up yer way, yet?"
"What girl?"
"Elastic'r somethin' like that."
"Oh yeah, her? My wife been tellin' me 'bout her."
"Yeah, 'parently she likes fire."
"Fire, you say?" One man says, looking at his fields, then back to work, "There's a hole there."
"My side," the other says automatically, putting the stones back in place, "She's talkin' 'bout fire 'n balance 'n what not an' boy what a temper."
The other man pauses, "Sure, fire's good fer balance, let's me clear a land easier, an' scorchin' a field can actually help it grow, but it's only so good if yer usin' it fer somethin'."
"'S true, but she says fire's it. Tha's the best'r somethin'."
*The farmers get to the end of the line where the corners turn, finishing their work*
"Well she can stay away from my fields come harvest time."
"Mine, too. Should send her up Jenkins's way, he's got a real nutter, too."
"Oh yeah, heard about him. So, same time next month?"
"Oh sure, but-"
"Good fences make good neighbors, neighbor," says one farmer as he's walking the other way. The statement causes the other farmer to stop and look back.
"Elves."
"What?"
"Oh, nothing."
Other rumors are coming in from the caravans. They speak of curious activity around the goblin caves, as if the goblins had suddenly taken to farming. They report seeing unusual amounts of chickens pecking near the Red Light Caverns. Similarly, there are many strange reports of birds in the area that "look like they're wearing suits". No one is sure why, but one thing is for sure, it seems the adventurers are trying to stop the goblins as the chickens are never seen when there are adventurers around.
336
« on: June 07, 2009, 06:11:32 pm »
//Lore States, "An annual meeting is held on each of the six major locations on Layonara. During that meeting druids are shifted from position to position or dismissed entirely. From this annual meeting another meeting is held on Dregar for the East and West branches to plan and socialize. After that meeting the two leaders of each branch then travel to the Great Oak to meet and update the Hierophant."
And before that, "Besides their connection to nature, the one thing that unifies this diverse population is the complex, and highly secretive, druidic political order. Each druid has a place within this order, and this place is negotiated and re-established at annual meetings somewhere on Dregar and in more frequent local gatherings. It is said that there is an Arch-Druid, a sort of druidic administrator, who serves as the central unifying agency. His presence in a druid’s life is far less tangible than a High-Druid, who may be the representative of a local grove or forest. These posts are more formal in nature than functional, however, as the connectivity between druids and all living things is the true source of all druidic organizing."
I've interested myself with this topic, but I realized something recently. 1 year on the Layonara calendar according to the Time Conversion page is 22 days, 9 hours, and 36 minutes.
I understand this meeting to be one of the important factors in organizing the druid hierarchy, something I've been considering doing lately, but meeting once every 22 real-life days seems a little too often to me, especially since one can only propose a CDQ once every three months.
How can we evaluate the positions of each druid within the hierarchy if there is not even enough time to further develop one's character from the last meeting? Indeed, it seems there can be cases where even two or three druidic meetings will occur before one can continue to make noticeable changes in the world.
I have to admit, I would like to start making these meetings Player initiated events with DM involvement (that way everyone gets a say in who's moving where in the hierarchy as it appears to me the Druid commune works), but I could never expect such a thing to be set up once every 22 days.
This is an attempt to help bring the druid community to life, in a sense. Right now, it would appear that these meetings where "druids are shifted from position to position or dismissed entirely" are shadowy affairs that none of us are really involved in. I feel like an opportunity is being missed here.
The easiest fix, in my opinion, would be to reduce the frequency of the druidic meetings to say once every three or four years.
Another possible fix would be to change the times in such a way that Layonara time is only slightly closer to our time. This would be very problematic, however, as I seem to recall past concerns about being able to walk huge distances in a short amount of time, and this second fix would only increase that issue.
337
« on: June 01, 2009, 04:49:28 pm »
Zahid Al Safi is stuck in the Battlehelm Moors. Game crashed while I was exploring there. I've tried logging in several times since on two different machines, but every time the screen is about to load the game crashes again. Any ideas on a fix? Thanks.
338
« on: April 14, 2009, 04:08:36 pm »
Port Hempstead - This one did not approve. Darthirâe tells this one Port Hempstead is a termite hill--natural. Lord Keel tells this one Port Hempstead exists for at least 700 years. He tells this one kobolds come not before the Dark Ages. This one is satisfied. If Port Hempstead termite hill exists for so long, perhaps it has become nature?
339
« on: April 06, 2009, 07:42:27 pm »
How's it going? I decided to check this game out after Shiff has been in my ear about it for months. My game is on its way and I've been reading up on it here, but I just have a quick question about submission.
I'm writing a biography/description for a Druid submission and while I have read the restrictions, druid information, and general druid tab I wasn't actually able to find any information regarding this.
If I remember correctly there are three ways druids come into their power: through natural affinity/birth, through encouragement from Druid or similar-minded parents, and through traumatic events/realizations. What I want to know is what happens once one discovers these abilities? Is it that the potential druid is sensed by others and thus inducted, officially, into the hierarchy, or does the potential druid have to search for others like himself? I'm just not sure how the actual process of being acknowledged as a druid occurs--any clarifications much appreciated. ^^
I look forward to playing with you all.
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