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Messages - Aphel
Pages: 1 2 3 [4] 5 6 ... 33
61
« on: December 04, 2013, 10:47:29 am »
The question should not be what, how, or even who - it should be why? Why should I invest my spare time here?
62
« on: December 04, 2013, 10:17:32 am »
Where is the donate button?
I am sure a squad of specially trained squirrel-monkeys will be dispatched to deal with that issue shortly.
63
« on: December 04, 2013, 05:10:42 am »
I agree with G-452, but want to add a point to his argument: Consider addressing some of the reasons people left.
Or why they are leaving. It's not coming out of the blue, most of the time.
64
« on: December 02, 2013, 10:02:58 am »
*makes a quick, tactical attack in the opposite direction after seeing Dorg's grin*
65
« on: December 01, 2013, 06:33:41 pm »
At the end of a day, sometimes in between, he could spare some time for himself – a few minutes maybe, to write or to think. At good days, it was maybe a page, maybe two that came out in the end. Sometimes it was just half a page – but he had enough time to think, to form, shape, sharpen and mold words so they would not escape him when he was writing. Of course, that was not always possible; the tasks of the day mostly occupied his mind completely, he did however find a corner of his mind that was able to think through things while they were happening, reflect them and uncoil on paper. Writing was a way to calm down, relax, to be free. He decided that nobody should see his writings, unless Orn wished to see them. Compared to the works of others, things he had read, they felt young, inexperienced and amateurish. They were, unlike his dairies and writings from his time in Llast and up to meeting Orn, of a very different nature. The tone changed to a more calm, contemplating, philosophical and poetic timbre and lost its teaching, almost analytical approach. Now, he wanted to tell stories like they had happened, in the context they were happening in. Mortal stories of failing, fighting against nature, against themselves – the three kinds of conflict, they said. The nightmares however, the nightmares never truly left him. Images of failures long done, torn visions of the future, and then always the Citadel rising from the red dust of his dreams into the steel sky from which a black sun loomed and cased hot sandstorms over the wasteland, dry and cracking, splintering until nothing but unrecognizable pieces remained. Sometimes he woke then, his senses alert and his mind wide awake, glad to have escaped the dream's iron clutches. Struggling to go back to sleep, listening to the sounds of the night around him, he contemplated the faces born from what-ifs and its myrad of children and relatives. It was true, he missed Orn's embrace, her way of being close to him and calming him with something as simple as an understanding smile. And so each day and each night brought forth filaments of lingering thoughts who would chose the company of inkwell, quill and paper when time allowed for it. And then they spilled on parchment, sometimes slowly and sometimes like a torrent of glacier water rushing forth from the highest reaches of the mountains. He wished he could weigh each word on a really fine scale, judge their effects – but once written, they grew to have their own dynamic, influence and effects. Often he had to remind himself of the lessons of caution and patience, sometimes, especially when in the end he saw the poem or contemplation, he noticed that there was such a thing as being too careful and patient. Writing, indeed, was hard: not only because words are fickle, elusive, hard to tame things, but also because figures and comparisons, exaggerations and allegories, repetition and metaphors provided a plethora of tools, techniques that could be possibly combined – but which combination lead to the intended goal, and which one was obfuscating what he wanted to say or even distorting it? Like sword and combat skills, these things needed to be practiced, experienced and improved on by doing it over and over again, each time differently, and then learn from one's mistakes. Days passed, far from those he knew, amidst strange faces where life and his path as a paladin was nothing but confronting him with confusing, complicated and outlandishly strange situations – in these days, the language that had slept within him grew from a simple roadside flower into kaleidoscopic lilac bush. He tended to his writing skills as he tended to his physical and mental things. And when the time came, he tested what in the garden would survive the harshest winter as he tested and had been tested before.
66
« on: December 01, 2013, 06:29:46 pm »
A journal entry, written in uniformly letters GUR NEG BS JNE VF BS IVGNY VZCBEGNAPR GB GUR FGNGR. VG VF N ZNGGRE BS YVSR NAQ QRNGU, N EBNQ RVGURE GB FNSRGL BE GB EHVA. URAPR VG VF N FHOWRPG BS VADHVEL JUVPU PNA BA AB NPPBHAG OR ARTYRPGRQ.
NYY JNESNER VF ONFRQ BA QRPRCGVBA. URAPR, JURA JR NER NOYR GB NGGNPX, JR ZHFG FRRZ HANOYR; JURA HFVAT BHE SBEPRF, JR ZHFG NCCRNE VANPGVIR; JURA JR NER ARNE, JR ZHFG ZNXR GUR RARZL ORYVRIR JR NER SNE NJNL; JURA SNE NJNL, JR ZHFG ZNXR UVZ ORYVRIR JR NER ARNE.
OR RKGERZRYL FHOGYR, RIRA GB GUR CBVAG BS SBEZYRFFARFF. OR RKGERZRYL ZLFGREVBHF, RIRA GB GUR CBVAG BS FBHAQYRFFARFF. GUREROL LBH PNA OR GUR QVERPGBE BS GUR BCCBARAG'F SNGR.
67
« on: November 23, 2013, 06:56:56 am »
The Ranger's Knife “WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE A RANGER? DO YOU KNOW IT, PUP?” The ranger loomed over the young boy, staring at him with his good eye. Aden could see the boy's thin arms trembling, trying to push himself up from the ground once more. Just once more. He knew it all to well, especially Berik's voice. Or rather, aggressive yell. “DO YOU THINK I LET ANYONE JOIN MY BELOVED PACK? YOU'RE NOT EVEN A WOLF, YOU'RE A DOMESTICATED DOG PUPPY! IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?!” Aden grinned a bit to himself. He hadn't expected that kind of treatment when he came here, and neither did the young vagabond. Berik was thorough. Every pup who made it this far would make it through this phase of training. It was just a question of how long it took and how much flesh got caught on the hurdle. And it always did - the veteran of the Northern Watch knew what he was doing. And when a pup was ready to face the next phase of ranger training. “GET ON YOUR PAWS, HURRY UP, DO I LOOK LIKE AN ELF TO YOU?! GET MOVING! GET MOVING! RANGERS DON'T DALLY!” Aden supposed that the yelling and the exhaustion were the worst part. Then came the bruises, the sore muscles, the constant lack of food and water. And sleep. That was especially dangerous. Every pup was looked after, of course, but they all had to go through it at least once. It was how it was. When the pups slumped into the barracks, Aden just finished repairing a few pieces of furniture. There were only three pups – Arden the piper, Jane and Jeff. They looked after each other by now. “Why does he have to be so mean all the time?”, Jeff demanded to know. Aden had the feeling that he might be the one that would try and run away. It happened before, usually with grizzly results. Arden sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Because if we don't get it now, then we'll get us or our friends killed later, I think.” Aden didn't say anything, but left them something to eat. They made it so far. A few more ordeals and they would get their knife as a reward. Sure, nothing special, but to a pup, it meant so much. It means that others deem your worthy enough now to take some responsibility, pup – you're old enough to have your own fang. Aden would forget these words quite so easily. The blade was on his belt even now and had followed him on his travels. It wasn't much, really – just a very sturdy hunting knife, the kind made almost everywhere, a common sight all over Layonara. The kind the rangers gave their new pups once they passed their first trials were nothing special either, in the end they were a bit of metal thoroughly forged into a sturdy, reliable, straight-edged cutting tool. But to a ranger, it was something important. It means you were deemed capable and responsible enough to have your own fang, your own tool – you could hunt, carve, fight, craft with it. Aden knew what Berik would tell them: “To an outsider, this is a simple, straight-edged hunting knife. To a ranger, it is the third most useful tool you have. You can use it to hunt and skin and cook animals, improvise a spear, craft yourself a simple bow. You can make a fire and build simple shelters with it. You must learn to understand how to use it like your own hand. If you lose it, you're in deep trouble because you are down to your body and your mind to defend you and keep you alive and fed. So do not lose it, understood?” And then they would go on a far stalk, leaving the camp behind much further than they ever did before. Still territory regularly patrolled, but dangerous as well for the unwary. Together with more experienced rangers and scouts, they would make their first stalk and put all their skills to the test, hone them, improve them, make them stronger until some where absorbed into instinct.
68
« on: November 22, 2013, 02:53:19 pm »
Maybe he should have had the smile of his son in his mind, or the embrace of his beloved Breanna on a sunny day in Blackfort, white linen swaying in the warm breeze. Maybe. But he didn't. There just was no time for it. The damage to the ship was extensive, the ghouls and drakes had destroyed a large amount of rigging, pulleys, woodwork, tools and so forth. The sails were nothing but torn rags, covered in thin layers of ice. The collision with the iceberg left the vessel in an even sorrier state, but still, the captain and his crew pressed on, insisting that they could make it back to shore. There were many repairs to be made, and they were lacking everything as usual. It was one thing to improvise around lacking materials on land, it was another to be stuck on a ship. Between guard shifts on deck and downtime in the wet and damp and cold below deck, there wasn't much time at all. He didn't trust Nym nor Jay, and for good reason. Not sure how the others could find sleep in such conditions, but they did. Maybe they were so exhausted that they just didn't care anymore. And he felt that he had to protect them, even if he was coming down with a cold or worse. He wasn't so bothered about that. They had Elly on board. That was at least something. He was beginning to feel sick and wanted to get something done before he had to rest. These are harsh lands. I wonder if it would make sense to train pups here, since Erilyn is not that far off. His mind wandered back to the various conflicts on Alindor. Sagewald and Tau'ren, The Sun Kingdom. Morholt. The Wolfswood was the green, beating heart of the continent, and possible the key to its strength. He had heard of the doings of queen Mirikel, and maybe that was something he should see to be copied. He had history to delve into once this was over, mysteries and official business. He could hear the water rage and slosh around them, deep, dark and cold; death that land dwellers could not truly understand. He had hoped to hear the songs of sea mammals reverberating through the ships hull, making their calls audible to the traveler's ear. But there only was silence, the mammals had traveled north or were silent in fear of hungry predators this time of the year. He looked at the others and their doing, realizing that they were locked up in a nutshell, driven by ambitions, the desire to help, greed or whatever else. Maybe they saw the mystery and the wonder around them, looking at the world with amazement. Maybe they saw the danger and the many challenges around them, looking at the world with suspicion and doubt. He wanted to do both, no matter the challenge that came with it. Curling up in his cloak he slipped into trance, hoping to hear the sound of the ocean in his trance, adding it to his symphony. A new tune. A new complex pattern to be studied and understood, a new patch of cloth to be sewn into the shroud. He hoped the others could find sleep. They would need all the strength they had on the rest of this journey.
69
« on: November 14, 2013, 04:11:57 pm »
A man in a weather-bleached blue cloak listens for a moment to these rumours, in passing a note is made and send in response. Those who spread the word are sought out, especially those who had direct contact with him.
70
« on: November 01, 2013, 04:56:37 pm »
Thanks milty and gilshem. I've read various publications on storytelling so far (went as far as Aristotle's Poetics) as well as other resources, I'll have a look into what new tricks I can find in the resources you two mentioned. I am not sure if it helps with roleplaying as well, but I found that a good way to practise storytelling is to write a full story in a dialogue of 10 lines or in a text of 400 words. For people with little writing time, I can recommend telling a story in less than or exactly 200 words.
71
« on: November 01, 2013, 10:04:14 am »
From personal experience, learning or brushing up on - or studying - fundamentals of drama & storytelling can be quite helpful. I'd be interested in a group aiming at improving those skills, if anybody has good tips for that or is interested in it, PM me.
72
« on: October 23, 2013, 05:34:58 am »
~ Dreams of Sanctuary ~ Some dreams he remembered, some of them he wrote down, inspirations for Arid. Others were just strange, inspirations for what he was doing and planning and thinking about. One of them was the dream of Sanctuary, of a multitude of places hidden by runes old and powerful, hidden by sand and rocks red as early dawn. Citadel was the largest of the places, a self-sustaining fortress build for eons of war passing it unscathed, a wonder of craftsmanship and architecture. It had seen dark and savage times but it was always rebuild again.
He had found the place in one of his early dreams, and when he thought that it was a symbol for the castles and fortresses in all of time, he noticed that it was different. It wasn't an amalgam of dreams nor a symbol, it was an idea for a place to be found or created. Sanctuary was a set of shelters build to contain life and civilization in the times that the forces of chaos, disorder, death and corruption flooded the land.
In one of his dreams he found a rune and instinctively knew its meaning, and thus became the gatekeeper, the guardian. It was all rather confused, and he wrote down what happened in his dreams in the language that he and Jhon had used to communicate without the girls knowing what exactly they were talking about. A code, meant for hiding the meaning from those who should not know -- another art he should learn about. He remembered something along the lines of:
“By dawns early light, owl calling knight; asking for the stone key's return to mother ocean. Remember poppies and cake, owl said, wisdom conceals the truth in a lie so to not wake the wrath and envy of the on-lookers.”
Nobody would ever read that with pleasure. Some inspirations for Arid, poetic sentence structure and such, but it formed how he thought about things and how to write them down clearly. But Sanctuary, the Citadel --they were not ready to be written about yet, had to remain in his mind or obfuscated by strange poetry. There were plans and studies to be made, books to be read, places to be found -- maybe even outside this realm of existence.
Orn called him bard-tongue, and he began to unravel for himself the reasons why. The more he wrote and read, the more eloquent his behavior got and the more refined his thoughts.
One day, he was out patrolling when he noticed that he could write down last nights thought to great detail and with such words that it was easy to cast it into a more or less strict form, and he let it grow and ripe until he sat down during a break to note it down and tuck the parchment into his missing report log. In the evening, he wrote it again, with ink and quill this time, read it over and began to elaborate on his mission log. Travel diaries, experiences flowing into contemplative observations gaining sharpness by experience in how to set stanzas. There was so little time to learn how to write, still, it was as useful as forging good tools or weapons and armor. There was a certain skill to it, to know how to fold and form, how to temper and harden to create sturdy objects suitable to the task they were to fulfill.
73
« on: October 22, 2013, 11:35:30 am »
~ Visiting the Citadel ~
Poppy petals swaying softly in the wind, a color so red even on a gray day like this one. Grandad always brought poppies to this grave.
“Will, there's something important.” The old man rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Humans are predisposed for war, and each generation can only do so much to prevent the next one from repeating the same mistakes. Keep the memories of the dead always vivid in your mind, they have been gone before you and for you, so that you can see a new dawn and can live a good live. You owe them that much. You understand?”
William nodded, the hand feeling heavy on his shoulder.
Orn understood, sequeezed his hand softly before letting go and remaining behind. These were special graves, tended and cared for regularly. And no matter of their position, the craftsmanship of the coffins – coffins! He hoped they had been burned at all! - the graves overshadowed the other places of remembrance. King graves. No matter now.
He knelt in front of the grave, his hand resting on the guard of his blade, its tip on the polished stone floor. He spend some time to remember the writings and teachings of Navarre, and whispered the oath of the paladins once more, finishing with his own litany of remembrance. He prayed at Kharls and Chaynce's grave as well. He new knew either of them, but there was something he had to say to Chaynce, even if he couldn't hear it.
“Your love trained us well, and even if her and I never did get along too well in recent years, she did a good job. The fires of war forged adults out of the children that we were back then, and I hope that we can be a reason of pride for you, your love and the Great Leader. Your love found a new love, moved on. She gave Lord Jaedon Siphe a daughter, and found a bit of peace after your loss. Hold out your hand over her, you and Toran – my mortal hands are not enough and bound by rules and regulations and orders. You have gone into the twilight so that I and others can see the new dawn, and I remember you Chaynce Baldu'muur. May I prove worthy to fight until twilight calls me, and I pass through the veil. Always vigilant, always faithful.”
He got up and returned to Orn. “You're a mystery”, she said. He was sure she hadn't heard what he had whispered to the coffin.
74
« on: October 11, 2013, 09:10:15 am »
Our dragons are cooler than their dragons! (And while we're at it, our gnomes/dwarves are cooler as well. And are not elves  ) Albeit, there are some parallels - the good deity dragon, the wise dragon, the evil deity dragon. Otherworldly beings meddling with the affairs of mortals. Elves. Sounds like some recipes for trouble and disaster are widely accepted.
75
« on: October 11, 2013, 02:13:47 am »
I'm not sure if the database permits it, but maybe there can be batches for those who still have a dragoncalled character or been in the forums and with Layonara for a long time. Just a thought.
76
« on: October 10, 2013, 04:55:37 pm »
77
« on: October 09, 2013, 04:01:11 pm »
~ Grove of Slumber ~
He slipped his boots off, feeling the dirt and grass between his toes. This place was strange. The animals avoided him, but they were there, watching him, minding their own buisness. He had heard of it. Druid groves.
Was he allowed to be here?
Then again, there was a birch, silver and gold – a symbol of Toran, or at least one could think so. So if he was decent, kind, unobtrusive and not wearing too much metal, he could walk around here. He knew. It was a very peaceful place. So very different to other places he had visited. A place for meditation.
In the middle of the circle of trees, he found a boulder with an inscription, carefully read it and stood there, his palm resting on the boulder, feeling the stored warmth of the sun.
Jhon's kind of place.
He stood there long, thinking, then sat down to meditate, his fingers finding the small wooden ankh, a copy of his brother's he had made. The original was ash, but this one … this one belonged somewhere else.
Celador and Caly were having some couple time. Another thing this place seemed to be predisposed for. Life and death, love and destruction. He meditated long, before he finally rested the ankh near the boulder, between the flowers and the grass. It would rot, become part of the soil, and nourish a new generation of plants. He somehow knew that Jhon wouldn't want it any different.
They left, not too long later, eager to going back to adventuring. Celador and Caly were eager, materialistic, hungry, but William felt that he had left something behind in that grove, but took something more important with him. He felt the weight of it, the spiritual weight, but had no idea what it was. Just … feeling even more estranged from the others.
78
« on: October 09, 2013, 04:00:01 pm »
~ To love and be loved ~
He kept Orn's letters in a small, sealed box so wind and weather couldn't ruin the ink and the parchment. It was a small, simple thing he had crafted himself when confined to an Inn during similar weather. Right now it supported a candle that went out long ago. That candle hadn't been cheap at all, but the warm light it radiated was way better for reading, writing and a romantic talk than the smelling, flickering oil lamps. He remembered having seen more spartan but incredibly elegant oil lamps on his travels, those didn't even flicker that much. He should get one.
But still.
This candle had been completely worth the trues so far.
I will inform her parents that I will marry her. I won't ask for permission, simply state my intent.
William bit his lip and stared into the gray darkness of the room.
But would that be wise? I can support her, I am young and have the abilities to. But do I need to kick in the door like that?
He missed her, now. He had woken after another one of those dreams, and when she was around, he rarely had them. Pax sighed in her sleep, possibly hunting a hare she could never get.
How could this be wrong, immoral or even a sin? There were times when he was the paladin, her protector and the protector of others; when she was the pristess with the powerful connection to Toran and the rethoric of a diplomat and ambassador. And then there were times when they just were themselves, souls and bodies in the need of warmth, comfort, good food, love and the feeling of safety from the darkness and the bad weather outside. He loved to love her, surprise her, make her blush, make her feel safe. He felt a bit naïve and foolish as well, but it was good to be loved by an actual person. There were things he found himself doing and admitting to in Orn's presence he didn't knew he had in him. Writing. That six and a half new pages on his desk, that came into being just like that. He wasn't sure what he was writing, and that remembered him of grandfather, hunched over a stack of parchment, scribbling away fast.
“What are you doing, Jero?”
“I don't know yet, and don't ask me!”
Grandfather never liked it when he was disturbed when writing. Now he understood why. He wondered if he should read it to Orn, but then again, she might be full of praise and joy – that didn't give him any idea on whether it was good or bad. It would never be a book, or anything to read for anybody but him. Well, and Orn maybe. He needed a pen name, or he would never ever be accepted in any rank anymore.
He would go and ask her parents. Be honest, forward. It was his and her life, and the only one they would ever have, soul stones or no. The wounds of the past, and wishes of the parents. It was hard to not go where the parents had gone before, learn from mistakes and hurt and not enter the same vicious circle again. He missed her, much. He learned to accept that, but still. He tried to be honest with himself. Without Raelyn, he wouldn't be here. He should write about it, because he didn't find any words for it any other way.
79
« on: October 09, 2013, 03:55:48 pm »
~ Remembering grandfather ~
“They say the way of Toran is the way of the longsword, of the good fight and the good war. Deluded nonsense, you should know better.”
Dripdripdrip. He tasted dirt and blood between his teeth, pushing himself on his feet, the cobble murky and slippery. The old man had a face like granite, chiseled, somber, hard and stern, yet his eyes – patiently like stars, faint but piercing. Rain dripped down the longsword. William licked his teeth and found them all in place, slow footwork on the cobble, muscles trembling, aching, burning. But he knew. He had seen the blade, the one he would inherit if he was ready. He had seen the books, heavy and covered in leather, and begun to decipher their codes line by line, page by page, and know that their secrets would be his when his grandfather deemed him worthy.
“Stance.” Grandfather pointed to the boy's uncovered left side a bit. “Vom Tag, useless but still a good choice. Handle closer to the body a bit.”
And seconds later, he would have pushed him over, again, the blades just touching twice – old man's strong, young boy's weakness, breaking open his defense and pushing it aside, letting the waster bounce off his helmet, closing the distance between them both.
“Again.”
Once they were inside and dry again, grandfather began his riddles again, his questions. Is it acceptable for a follower of the Great Leader to kill a tyrant? Is it acceptable to sacrifice a few for the benefit of many? What was morally good, and why should it be?
“And don't you stop with the pushups, or you get some extra weight on your back.”
Once, he had heard his father arguing that grandfather was being too demanding and harsh. “Life is more unforgiving. I gave you some leeway, true enough, because it was your choice after all. William is strong in spirit and mind, and until he finds an apprenticeship he might as well learn something useful for the rest of his life.” Father had a very strong opinion on the matters of fighting and reading. Working in his shop was easier, in a sense, but difficult in another manner: Don't work against but with the fiber, see the wood and its grows through your tools so that it would not break under the first sign of stress. Sharpening tools in the right angle, keeping the right temperature in the workshop for gluing parts together. Seeing which wood was good and which was bad by the way it behaved after cutting and drying. Judging the quality of salvaged wood, setting prices, how to bargain and outright haggle. Sources of wood, exotic wood, that sort of thing. William was happy when he visited his father or his grandfather, new challenges and new knowledge to be found during the first few days before it became outright tedious and exhausting. Of course, he couldn't possible moan and complain, nor would he – he was in a good environment, something to eat, something to drink, people that cared about him and a place to life.
The task his grandfather had given him before locking him into the study read: “What is the way of Toran?”
He had one sheet of parchment, and one sheet only. William thought of the words of Lieutenant Neshak, a follower of Toran from the tribes of the Desert. The sand was racing, running down the hourglass. One sheet, one task, one hour. Staring out of the window, where regular city life slowly went on and into the evening, he tried to catch the elusive figments of thought again that escaped him days ago.
The way of Toran is neither the best nor the strongest way in life. It is not the way that leads to perpetual war we seem to be predisposed for, and it is not the path of bodily or mental strength. It is the path of spiritual strength, of endurance and wisdom, of perpetual work and readiness. There is nothing fair in life or war. The path of Toran is not the path of War.
The way of Toran is the way of the undrawn longsword, presenting one of the pinnacles of swordsmanship: winning without fighting, enduring without resorting to fight.
80
« on: October 09, 2013, 03:53:39 pm »
~ Notes on roles in warfare ~
Inflitration
Scouting, hitting targets of high value, hit-and-run tactics, guerilla warfare
Typical equipment: Ranged weapons, light armor, small blades
Typical Al'Noth support: Illusions, Mobility, Wards, Destructive
Mobility
Moving troops and goods, securing these while on the move, providing mobile support
Typical equipment: Ranged weapons, light armor, small blades, staff weapons
Typical Al'Noth support: Illusions, Mobility, Wards, Summons
Siege
Attacking, defending and creating fortified positions
Typical equipment: Ranged weapons, medium armor, small blades, staff weapons
Typical Al'Noth support: Wards, Summons, Destructive
Tactical
Bulk of the army, fewer to no specialists, adaptable to various tasks
Typical equipment: Adaptive
Typical Al'Noth support: Adaptive
Support
Logistics, healing, training, recruitment
Typical equipment: Light or heavy armor, small and long blades
Typical Al'Noth support: Wards, Summons, Restorative, Alteration
Each branch brings forth their own leadership cadre which is centrally trained to improve smooth communications and cooperation.
Specialists have better skills and equipment than Tactical branch. Separation after ranged/close combat, light/heavy infantry irrelevant.
Users of Al'Noth are training with the troops they will be serving in during various stages of their training.
All members have to pass the same basic aptitude and fitness tests.
~ Note, Fiorez-Hilm analysis ~
Losses during the Deepening Dark incursion most to be reduced to absence of sufficiently trained spellweavers and healers. Wards to strengthen attacking troops to magical attacks or defend positions against magical bombardment lacking. True?
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