I'm late to this, but Asmodron, you are commenting inaccurately on stuff that you had 0 role in. Please keep the lies and misinformation in game and don't spread it to the forums.
The sweltering heat of the forge spills out across the land as the rumbling voice of Phaestus booms, "Let this serve as a reminder to the Seat of Folly, of what happens when you play with forces beyond your understanding."
The air resonates with the clang of metal striking metal as a pinprick of silver darts across the firmament, streaking down towards Ashtan.
Churning, roiling clouds gather in the skies above Ashtan, fulminous energies cascading across their surface. Sweeping forwards with unhindered abandon, the stormwall engulfs the descending anchor before folding in upon itself, vanishing as quickly as it appeared and taking the leaden spike with it.
Rumbling laughter echoes across Creation, a comfortable warmth accompanying the Smith's amusement.
Phaestus reaches towards a planar tear, forcing it closed with little more than a gesture.
Phaestus kneels, scooping a small bit of clay from the soil nearby. As Phaestus kneads the clay carefully, it begins to grow and take shape, its earthen hues turning to a metallic sheen.
Phaestus kneels once more, placing the chunk of metal nearby before reaching for His hammer, pounding away at the gold as it continues to grow, forcing it to take shape. As the Smith continues to hammer away, the metallic structure grows to dwarf Him, an inverted cone of metal balancing inexplicably on its tip.
Phaestus takes a step back and wipes his brow, before reaching backwards with His hammer in hand, sending it hurtling towards the anchor with a flick of His wrist. The surface of the golden anchor explodes into motion as the hammer strikes true, the once-solid metal now swirling and rippling as if a liquid.
Phaestus, the Smith says, "Now that this mess has been cleaned up, I must attend to My children."
All of Creation quakes as the ominous tones of Babel, the Lord of Oblivion pervade, "Strike and strike again, O Forgeling. It avails the weave naught."
Gibbering whispers arise to coalesce into the baritone thunder of the Mad God's malicious chuckle, an ill silence left lingering in its wake.
The sweltering heat of the forge spills out across the land as the rumbling voice of Phaestus booms, "You bark and howl, Rabid One, but any who succumb to Your disease will be put down, as befits them."
The sweltering heat of the forge spills out across the land as the rumbling voice of Phaestus booms, "Let this serve as a reminder to the Seat of Folly, of what happens when you play with forces beyond your understanding."
The air resonates with the clang of metal striking metal as a pinprick of silver darts across the firmament, streaking down towards Ashtan.
Churning, roiling clouds gather in the skies above Ashtan, fulminous energies cascading across their surface. Sweeping forwards with unhindered abandon, the stormwall engulfs the descending anchor before folding in upon itself, vanishing as quickly as it appeared and taking the leaden spike with it.
Rumbling laughter echoes across Creation, a comfortable warmth accompanying the Smith's amusement.
Phaestus reaches towards a planar tear, forcing it closed with little more than a gesture.
Phaestus kneels, scooping a small bit of clay from the soil nearby. As Phaestus kneads the clay carefully, it begins to grow and take shape, its earthen hues turning to a metallic sheen.
Phaestus kneels once more, placing the chunk of metal nearby before reaching for His hammer, pounding away at the gold as it continues to grow, forcing it to take shape. As the Smith continues to hammer away, the metallic structure grows to dwarf Him, an inverted cone of metal balancing inexplicably on its tip.
Phaestus takes a step back and wipes his brow, before reaching backwards with His hammer in hand, sending it hurtling towards the anchor with a flick of His wrist. The surface of the golden anchor explodes into motion as the hammer strikes true, the once-solid metal now swirling and rippling as if a liquid.
Phaestus, the Smith says, "Now that this mess has been cleaned up, I must attend to My children."
All of Creation quakes as the ominous tones of Babel, the Lord of Oblivion pervade, "Strike and strike again, O Forgeling. It avails the weave naught."
Gibbering whispers arise to coalesce into the baritone thunder of the Mad God's malicious chuckle, an ill silence left lingering in its wake.
The sweltering heat of the forge spills out across the land as the rumbling voice of Phaestus booms, "You bark and howl, Rabid One, but any who succumb to Your disease will be put down, as befits them."
Anyone got logs from earlier for those of us in the future that are currently at work?
(D.M.A.): Cooper says, "Kyrra is either the most innocent person in the world, or the girl who uses the most innuendo seemingly unintentionally but really on purpose."
You sit within the centre of your village, idly passing the day. A faint rumble echoes in your ears, growing louder with every second that passes. Before the thought to flee occurs to you, the wine- dark sea rages through the village, and monsters from the deep roam the roads, devouring all they encounter.
I just enjoy seeing how salty and riled up you get, personally. Someone doesn't have to matter, themselves, to say something else doesn't matter. I'm not an amazing writer, doesn't mean I can't say 50 Shades of Grey is fucking awful. Silly logic.
I just enjoy seeing how salty and riled up you get, personally. Someone doesn't have to matter, themselves, to say something else doesn't matter. I'm not an amazing writer, doesn't mean I can't say 50 Shades of Grey is fucking awful. Silly logic.
Yep so salty.
Might I suggest this location for your near constant vitriol. You'll feel much more at home:
Since I can't edit.. it was suppose to be a question mark, not a full stop.
The sea-related dream is highlighted as part of svof's prone detection system. It's acting that way because it detects "You sit" while the system is paused.
Note this log is missing some of the opening portions, and some events may have been struck from the record that were of importance while I was striking from the record everything I felt was not. I've included a single adventure's action in all of this, as I felt it was impactful in a way.
Comments
For those that were not around:
The sweltering heat of the forge spills out across the land as the rumbling voice of Phaestus booms, "Let this serve as a reminder to the Seat of Folly, of what happens when you play with forces beyond your understanding."
The air resonates with the clang of metal striking metal as a pinprick of silver darts across the firmament, streaking down towards Ashtan.
Churning, roiling clouds gather in the skies above Ashtan, fulminous energies cascading across their surface. Sweeping forwards with unhindered abandon, the stormwall engulfs the descending anchor before folding in upon itself, vanishing as quickly as it appeared and taking the leaden spike with it.
Rumbling laughter echoes across Creation, a comfortable warmth accompanying the Smith's amusement.
Phaestus reaches towards a planar tear, forcing it closed with little more than a gesture.
Phaestus kneels, scooping a small bit of clay from the soil nearby. As Phaestus kneads the clay carefully, it begins to grow and take shape, its earthen hues turning to a metallic sheen.
Phaestus kneels once more, placing the chunk of metal nearby before reaching for His hammer, pounding away at the gold as it continues to grow, forcing it to take shape. As the Smith continues to hammer away, the metallic structure grows to dwarf Him, an inverted cone of metal balancing inexplicably on its tip.
Phaestus takes a step back and wipes his brow, before reaching backwards with His hammer in hand, sending it hurtling towards the anchor with a flick of His wrist. The surface of the golden anchor explodes into motion as the hammer strikes true, the once-solid metal now swirling and rippling as if a liquid.
Phaestus, the Smith says, "Now that this mess has been cleaned up, I must attend to My children."
All of Creation quakes as the ominous tones of Babel, the Lord of Oblivion pervade, "Strike and strike again, O Forgeling. It avails the weave naught."
Gibbering whispers arise to coalesce into the baritone thunder of the Mad God's malicious chuckle, an ill silence left lingering in its wake.
The sweltering heat of the forge spills out across the land as the rumbling voice of Phaestus booms, "You bark and howl, Rabid One, but any who succumb to Your disease will be put down, as befits them."
growing louder with every second that passes. Before the thought to flee occurs to you, the wine-
dark sea rages through the village, and monsters from the deep roam the roads, devouring all they
encounter.
Have we really been fucked that hard recently?
https://ada-young.com/pastebin/MIPmdH5t
It was too big to not pastebin.