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Nations of Steel and Sabre

Reader mode
France is of the opinion immediately taking an aggressive stance with the Pope will ensure their clergy never gets split loyaltiesm
 
It's not an aggressive stance, it's a 'we are displeased with current events, you might not like it if on of the major Europan powers is displeased with you'.

And then people wonder why I don't feel like a major power.
 
shiverczar said:
Not really going to bother responding to the rest, but...

This part: Nobody else did, either. They've either reformed in-game if they wanted to, or stuck with whatever hand they were dealt.

These nations didn't pop into existence the year the game started, created from empty vacuum, but rather have a legitimate and probably storied history behind them.

If you want a different name or type of nation, pick a different nation?

If we were crafting the nations, most people probably wouldn't place themselves with exactly the stats they've got.


>=)
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Thank you for clarifying that for me, I had no idea
 
Azecreth said:
It's not an aggressive stance, it's a 'we are displeased with current events, you might not like it if on of the major Europan powers is displeased with you'.

And then people wonder why I don't feel like a major power.
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Brass Serpent:
"Pardon, thy Royal Highness. We hath heard thou mayst be in the market for a spiritual liege?"
 
Realtalk considering that the Pope chose to completely ignore Brass Serpent's very nice and complimentary letter where she very tactfully refrained from declaring her spiritual authority was equal to if not higher than his, we don't have a dog in this fight.

@Theravis does Diplo to the Patriarch of Byzantium go to you or the Byz player?
 
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Wade Garrett said:
Realtalk considering that the Pope chose to completely ignore Brass Serpent's very nice and complimentary letter where she very tactfully refrained from declaring her spiritual authority was equal to if not higher than his, we don't have a dog in this fight.

@Theravis does Diplo to the Patriarch of Byzantium go to you or the Byz player?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
Byz player.
 
Wade Garrett said:
Realtalk considering that the Pope chose to completely ignore Brass Serpent's very nice and complimentary letter where she very tactfully refrained from declaring her spiritual authority was equal to if not higher than his, we don't have a dog in this fight.

@Theravis does Diplo to the Patriarch of Byzantium go to you or the Byz player?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

I wasn't the Pope back then by the by.

Am replying to everything directed my way at the moment.
 
tttuuurn post at some point today or tomorrow @Theravis, in the meantime my two returning heroes plus the one I rolled.

Bio: The most direct descendant of Fenrisúlfr, Fame-Wolf and Monster of the River Van, living in the world today. Born beneath a bloody lunar eclipse he is every inch his heritage. Though he has a human seeming none could ever mistake him for a mere man: the lines of his jaw are too hungry, too feral, his shaggy, snowy hair too much like a pelt, the eyes too bright and red to belong to a child of woman born. No, he is a wolf in a mockery skin, born from the moon-eater himself. Through the deepest winter he walks utterly untouched clad in nothing but a few scraps of black cloth. The shining ribbon-brands burning across his body. In disposition he is bloodthirsty and crass. While not unintelligent he lacks the patience for political niceties, saving his thoughts and efforts for the fields of war. There he is a bloody whirlwind, a hurricane of raw, brutal force. He is also Arkyn's cousin and closest friend, his oath of vengeance dissolved he seeks purpose and glory in this brave new world of Kalmarian ambition.
Spells:

The Keen Scent Calls (Unveiling+): 4
A drop of spilled blood, long clotted on the cold earth. A scrap of discolored cloth, waving from a windswept branch for a winter's course. The smudged impression of oils on a handle. Wherever creatures walk they leave traces of themselves, quickly worn away by the world true yet such clues shine to Gunnolf's senses. Proof of passage, proof that you were here. Provided even the meanest sliver of a clue the moon-eater's son can track almost any being over almost any distance. Even abjectly impossible terrain such as the open ocean or solid stone.

Glutton for Glory (Knowing+): 4
All that we have after we die is the songs others sing of us. The tales they tell of our braveries, our triumphs, and our glories. Every day Gunnolf tirelessly works to craft his own, living legend, to bolster his fame and ensure it endures until the very stars burn cold. On any field of battle he knows both the location and an accurate summation of the targets that will win him the most glory, be they enemy combat walkers, generals, or the Heroes of other nations.

Blood-bound Yearning (Weaving/Perfecting): 6
This is a world of gods and monsters, a time of turmoil where heroes and hellish monsters alike walk the earth. Above them all Gunnolf stands! And all who behold his deeds are bound to agree. Every blow he strikes against his targets, every hunt he completes, every head he claims with blade or claw or fang resonates in the hearts of those around him. His allies feel their courage swell, their blood sing! His enemies can only tremble, struck with awe and despair in equal measure for how could they ever hope to kill something so mighty?

Wake the Wild Hunt (Patterning/Shielding): 6
Beasts lurk in the hearts of men. Caged, shackled things; kept blind and deaf and dumb yet yearning to be free. Faced with the blood-soaked majesty of Gunnolf these carefully constructed bonds melt away, wax before a blast furnace. Enemies exposed overlong to Gunnolf's feats of glory find themselves metaphysically routed, the seductive song of a primal freedom overtaking them. Their silent surrender offered and accepted in the same instant that they burst out of their skins. They become Fenrisian wolfmen and part of Gunnolf's pack, fighting on with wild, joyful, abandon. Empowered by the vigor and radiance of their new leader.

Predator King Paragon (Shielding+): 5
Even the gods feared to fight Fenrir, choosing instead to subdue him through trickery and guile. Gunnolf has inherited some measure of this heaven-shaking strength. Naked flesh turns bullets and blades alike. Infernos leave only a skim of sooty ash. He is fast, faster than the artillery shells that rain around him. He is strong, strong enough to wrestle dragons and break a godling's arm. When he lunges forward the earth shakes and the air itself is blasted aside. And when he strikes? Stone and steel and paltry bone are torn as if sopping wet paper.

Father's Moon Shredding Mockery (Unmaking): 5
Skoll's jaw closes, his head twists and with a savage smile he tears free chunks from the body of his eternal prey. The light dims and a blood red caul creeps across the moon, blood pooling in the sclera of some almighty eye. From the heavens there is a terrifying howling, a triumphant celestial call that shakes the bones and batters the brain. Within moments a rain of silvery stones falls, launched with all the force and power of a massed artillery bombardment and continuing throughout the night. Through it all Gunnolf walks untouched, backlit by the argent fire. Framed by his father's small gift.

Uncle's Sun Mauling Spite (Making): 5
Hati's jaw closes, fangs gouging furrows in the sun's flesh with a hateful snap; solar fire dripping from his lips. The light dims and a blackened shadow slips over the surface of the sun, a figure framed against that burning brand. From the heavens there is a horrifying snarling, a satisfied huff that scrapes the spine and sets the nerves shivering. Within moments iridescent fire falls, igniting the earth and drawing great walls of shimmering flame across the land, charring all they touch to absolute cinder. Through it all Gunnolf walks untouched, awash in the incandescent inferno. Blessed by his uncle's care.

The Flaw in All Things (Knowing+): 5
Fenrir, raised in the home of the Aesir, was greatly feared by his adopted family. They conferred amongst themselves and offered forth three fetters in hopes to bind him: Leyding (snapped with ease), Dromi (snapped without care), and Gleipnir which holds fast the Great Wolf in the sacred grove of the gods until the last days. But in the end nothing can contain Fenrir indefinitely, only his own will and even then only for a time. Gunnolf was born with this truth, the shining scars of it etched across his body: everything has a weak link. Everything has a hidden flaw. In the end everything can be broken.
Bio: He seems more human than most of his people if one overlooks the powerful tails that coils behind him and the green-black scales that creep up his neck: a young man just coming into the prime of his life. Hair black as storm-racked clouds, eyes the hard iron of the sea and skin as fair and flawless as the first snows. Any warrior would count himself a lucky man to have a wife even half as beautiful as he. But the perfect image hides an abiding uncertainty, deep grief at the death of his father and uncertainty regarding his ascension to the throne. Upon him rests the hopes and dreams of all his people, their happiness, their faith, their very survival rests in his hands. Beneath it all lies a burning, smouldering wrath: he will never forgive the world for its scorn, its dismissive contempt. A certain vindictive cruelty consumes him. He will scorch his dreams into the living bones of the world itself and those who hate him will watch, helpless and impotent as he shapes the future to his liking.
Spells:
And All the Skalds Sing (Weaving+): 5
A myth is a living thing; a shared tapestry, a hundred thousand threads binding all who hear it together. Propagating out on their tongues, splitting and webbing endlessly on. Arkyn's myth is more alive than most. Those blessed with Mage Sight can almost see it, billowing behind him, around him, like some colossal symbiote. Know this: love nourishes it, fear sustains it...and its strength is his strength. It's power is his power. Devotion, faith, and trust in the High King enhances all other powers in proportion with the magnitude of contributing subjects. Pushing already potent abilities to frightening heights.

Magnanimity of the Serpent King (Perfecting+): 5
From his talons drip treasures, from his tongue flows the secret truths of the world; his bones are fate and his blood is fortune. Arkyn annoints his land and the people therein, privileging them above all others. Catastrophes that would ruin them are narrowly averted. Calamities that would tear them asunder dissipate before they fully materialize. A thousand strokes of good luck. A thousand boons and innumerable blessings. This he gives to his people.

Ancient Auguries Foretold (Knowing+): 4
Older than time and not yet come to pass, such is the paradox of the skeins of fate. Tended by the Norns and dispensed upon the world. Branched out upon eventual billions yet terminating down to a single point. While Arkyn cannot identify all possible futures and is, as all creatures, vulnerable to the utterly unexpected, he is able to follow the thickest strands of fate of the most likely outcomes of his larger scale decisions. Tracing the chains of events with unnerving accuracy, his enemies's probable plans unfolding before him before they are ever made.

Shimmering Seconds Unseamed (Weaving+): 5
The world ticks on, winding and wending until it's inevitable death in fire and flame. To struggle against it is madness. To countermand it impossible. The great events of the past cannot be undone. The world, once-made, cannot be unmade until the appointed time. Yet, for the truly powerful there is a path: fate, woven but not yet set, can be altered if only by a single thread. With this power Arkyn may walk back through the moments and repeat or alter a recent action. It's not much, a scrape of seconds, a few minutes at the maximum, but all too often it's enough.

The Blue Gore Seal (Ruling+): 5
All life is born from the meltwater that first flowed from Ymir, ancient patriarch of Giants. The sleeping bones of this slow-rotting world. Giant-blooded and kin to the great sea snake Jormungandr, Arkyn's affinity for this primeval ichor is two-fold and it, stirred by some half-aware consciousness, rushes to serve. With but an effort of will he can freeze vast, storm-swept waves or sublimate the blood in your body to steam. With one scaled hand he beckons and entire forests burst, the water of their trunks slicing out, creasing the ground with great rivers. Glacial ramparts, razored ribbons of water, the only limit is his range.

Corpse-Sweat Twitch (Patterning/Weaving): 7
This world was torn from the flesh of Ymir, his skull the sky, his brains the cloud, this land his bones. But something so vast cannot die as men do and shreds of that colossal mind linger in the earth and they know their kin. Their king. The world compresses, folds and distorts at Arkyn's will. A meter expands into a mile, a league compresses into an inch. Forward he strides and the decayed flesh of this world fires with spastic nerves, vast beyond reckoning, sleepily shifting to obey.

Carrion-Maggot Manifestation (Unmaking/Patterning): 9
The first men were born from the world's sweat, giants from his limbs, elves from the small crawling vermin. Life is a natural byproduct of the world, monstrous and mundane alike. The implications are unsettling, if such was born from but the meanest scraps then what else might lurk within? What maggots might blindly crawl, slowly chewing through the belly of a world-maker?Wonder no longer and witness the truth. With a roaring cry Arkyn strikes the ground and from the bowels of the earth surge forth titanic, phantasmal wyrms. Immense, pallid things, magic running through their ghostly, glacial blue flesh. Guts bloated on their repast. At his order they rampage forth, swelling further, shifting, mutating, molting; the fly within waiting to be born.
Bio: He was nobody special: an awkward, gangly young man who volunteered for experimentation, seeking some scrap of meaning, some trace of use in a nation that seemed to have no need for him. Half-crippled, the draconic stillborn within him, he attempted to find his way. Still trying, failing, striving to be the hero he longed to be. He is no longer that young man. He has gone farther than many. Seen more than all but a few. He has journeyed to Helheim, and eaten of the flesh of Nidhoggr, root-gnawer and woe-striker, and emerged reborn. Sharp, stonelike scales cling to his body. Powerful wings hang, half-folded over his shoulders; living gauntlets, organic greaves. He has brought to Kalmar knowledge of other worlds, other jotnar and for his bravery and boundless determination found himself much beloved by the High King. A sentiment that is warmly reciprocated.
Spells:
Woe-Striker's Wings (Patterning): 4
Stars burn beneath the membranes of Ingjaldr's wings, alien nebulae swirl and meteors flash. While they can bear him aloft in material spheres with but a twist they let him slip between. Fading between worlds at the weak points, journeying the twigs and boughs of Yggdrasill. Although he cannot properly teleport with them they do allow him to take shortcuts. Stepping into magical planes at one intersection, exiting at another.

Stone Hearth Scales (Shielding+): 4
Nidghorr lives in the very deepest hollows of the known Universe, beyond the reach of warmth, beyond the reach of light, and yet he persists. And yet he endures. The stony grey scales that partially cover Ingjaldr's body are only a portion of the living armor within him. By reflex he may draw forth the rest, encasing himself in an environmental armor able to resist hostile regions and even the most inhospitable extremes of heat, cold, darkness, and pressure.

Inner Celestial Codex (Knowing+/Unveiling+): 6
The thaumaturgic organs within Ingjaldr's body innately guide him with an accuracy to surpass even the most complicated of astronomical surveyors. He sees the branches of the World Tree, forking and dividing and brushing against each other. He sees how they intersect, where they lead and crook and curve. Yet, perhaps most importantly, he always knows where he himself is in relation to all else. Granting him an utterly uncanny sense of spatial awareness and direction.

Juggernaut Arsenal Viscera (Patterning): 4
Nidhoggr rips at the roots of the world yet is never sated, his innards a bottomless pit of want and gluttonous greed. Ingjaldr carries no pack and bears no pouch for he has no need, everything he might need to carry is borne with him in cavernous metaphysical "stomachs". Pockets of folded space anchored to his body, animate arsenals and traveling treasuries, living laboratories full of samples from all the nine realms and the spaces between. He may regurgitate the contents at any time, spilling them from the nothing into the open air through jagged, fanged portals.

The Only Me Is Me (Weaving/Knowing): 4
Murder, adultry, oath-breaking, such are the sins that bring you to Root-Gnawer's jaws. To the very lowest of the low, forgotten with all the weight of all the universe atop you as you are chewed alive and swallowed whole. Incorporated into the colossal beast's bulk. Ingjaldr works on a similar, albeit smaller, principle. Unfolding a second set of gleaming jaws he swallows the dead whole and digests them. Adopting their body as a disguise and rifling through their memories like a thief in the house.

Ownership By Consumption (Patterning): 4
The dragon chews upon the tendrils and twining growth of the god-tree, sucking vital nutrients from all the nine realms and investing them within himself. All that Ingjaldr places within his bellies he may infect with the eternal, unyielding energies of the Dragon Beneath the World. Artillery pieces twist and turn and rain down shells of dragon-fire. A stolen river vomits from empty space, waters swimming with strange, stone-toothed fish. Nidghoggr would see all the Universe inside his stomach and a portion of this almighty greed persists in his champion and adopted heir.


Crown Swallowing Gullet (Unmaking/Perfecting): 8
Magic is the art of manipulating the world, the method by which the will is made manifest. A symbol of authority and knowledge and wealth. Nidhoggr only stretches his lips wide and licks his chops,. Even the primeval forces will fill him, even such cosmic vitality will sustain him. Ingjaldr may consume hostile magic inflicted upon him and channel it into his own form. Boosting his own abilities for a time until the stolen, swallowed power is fully digested..

Birth By Death (Patterning/Shielding): 6
At the end of days the dragon will rise and in so doing be reborn, shedding the accouterments of death the innumerable corpses as he swarms up the trunk of the tree. From the corpse, creation, from the charnel house the world rises anew. Corpses across the field of battle fly to the wounded Ingjaldr, drawn like filings to the magnetic pole. Around him they form the shell, shielding his injured body from harm. Within he is revitalized, within even the most grievous of injuries are sealed and his body healed, returning him to the fray fresh and whole.

yeah yeah getcher bitchin' out of the way and stuff everyone. :p At least I'm doing fluff for each of 'em.
 
TenfoldShields said:
tttuuurn post at some point today or tomorrow @Theravis, in the meantime my two returning heroes plus the one I rolled.

Bio: The most direct descendant of Fenrisúlfr, Fame-Wolf and Monster of the River Van, living in the world today. Born beneath a bloody lunar eclipse he is every inch his heritage. Though he has a human seeming none could ever mistake him for a mere man: the lines of his jaw are too hungry, too feral, his shaggy, snowy hair too much like a pelt, the eyes too bright and red to belong to a child of woman born. No, he is a wolf in a mockery skin, born from the moon-eater himself. Through the deepest winter he walks utterly untouched clad in nothing but a few scraps of black cloth. The shining ribbon-brands burning across his body. In disposition he is bloodthirsty and crass. While not unintelligent he lacks the patience for political niceties, saving his thoughts and efforts for the fields of war. There he is a bloody whirlwind, a hurricane of raw, brutal force. He is also Arkyn's cousin and closest friend, his oath of vengeance dissolved he seeks purpose and glory in this brave new world of Kalmarian ambition.
Spells:

The Keen Scent Calls (Unveiling+): 4
A drop of spilled blood, long clotted on the cold earth. A scrap of discolored cloth, waving from a windswept branch for a winter's course. The smudged impression of oils on a handle. Wherever creatures walk they leave traces of themselves, quickly worn away by the world true yet such clues shine to Gunnolf's senses. Proof of passage, proof that you were here. Provided even the meanest sliver of a clue the moon-eater's son can track almost any being over almost any distance. Even abjectly impossible terrain such as the open ocean or solid stone.

Glutton for Glory (Knowing+): 4
All that we have after we die is the songs others sing of us. The tales they tell of our braveries, our triumphs, and our glories. Every day Gunnolf tirelessly works to craft his own, living legend, to bolster his fame and ensure it endures until the very stars burn cold. On any field of battle he knows both the location and an accurate summation of the targets that will win him the most glory, be they enemy combat walkers, generals, or the Heroes of other nations.

Blood-bound Yearning (Weaving/Perfecting): 6
This is a world of gods and monsters, a time of turmoil where heroes and hellish monsters alike walk the earth. Above them all Gunnolf stands! And all who behold his deeds are bound to agree. Every blow he strikes against his targets, every hunt he completes, every head he claims with blade or claw or fang resonates in the hearts of those around him. His allies feel their courage swell, their blood sing! His enemies can only tremble, struck with awe and despair in equal measure for how could they ever hope to kill something so mighty?

Wake the Wild Hunt (Patterning/Shielding): 6
Beasts lurk in the hearts of men. Caged, shackled things; kept blind and deaf and dumb yet yearning to be free. Faced with the blood-soaked majesty of Gunnolf these carefully constructed bonds melt away, wax before a blast furnace. Enemies exposed overlong to Gunnolf's feats of glory find themselves metaphysically routed, the seductive song of a primal freedom overtaking them. Their silent surrender offered and accepted in the same instant that they burst out of their skins. They become Fenrisian wolfmen and part of Gunnolf's pack, fighting on with wild, joyful, abandon. Empowered by the vigor and radiance of their new leader.

Predator King Paragon (Shielding+): 5
Even the gods feared to fight Fenrir, choosing instead to subdue him through trickery and guile. Gunnolf has inherited some measure of this heaven-shaking strength. Naked flesh turns bullets and blades alike. Infernos leave only a skim of sooty ash. He is fast, faster than the artillery shells that rain around him. He is strong, strong enough to wrestle dragons and break a godling's arm. When he lunges forward the earth shakes and the air itself is blasted aside. And when he strikes? Stone and steel and paltry bone are torn as if sopping wet paper.

Father's Moon Shredding Mockery (Unmaking): 5
Skoll's jaw closes, his head twists and with a savage smile he tears free chunks from the body of his eternal prey. The light dims and a blood red caul creeps across the moon, blood pooling in the sclera of some almighty eye. From the heavens there is a terrifying howling, a triumphant celestial call that shakes the bones and batters the brain. Within moments a rain of silvery stones falls, launched with all the force and power of a massed artillery bombardment and continuing throughout the night. Through it all Gunnolf walks untouched, backlit by the argent fire. Framed by his father's small gift.

Uncle's Sun Mauling Spite (Making): 5
Hati's jaw closes, fangs gouging furrows in the sun's flesh with a hateful snap; solar fire dripping from his lips. The light dims and a blackened shadow slips over the surface of the sun, a figure framed against that burning brand. From the heavens there is a horrifying snarling, a satisfied huff that scrapes the spine and sets the nerves shivering. Within moments iridescent fire falls, igniting the earth and drawing great walls of shimmering flame across the land, charring all they touch to absolute cinder. Through it all Gunnolf walks untouched, awash in the incandescent inferno. Blessed by his uncle's care.

The Flaw in All Things (Knowing+): 5
Fenrir, raised in the home of the Aesir, was greatly feared by his adopted family. They conferred amongst themselves and offered forth three fetters in hopes to bind him: Leyding (snapped with ease), Dromi (snapped without care), and Gleipnir which holds fast the Great Wolf in the sacred grove of the gods until the last days. But in the end nothing can contain Fenrir indefinitely, only his own will and even then only for a time. Gunnolf was born with this truth, the shining scars of it etched across his body: everything has a weak link. Everything has a hidden flaw. In the end everything can be broken.
Bio: He seems more human than most of his people if one overlooks the powerful tails that coils behind him and the green-black scales that creep up his neck: a young man just coming into the prime of his life. Hair black as storm-racked clouds, eyes the hard iron of the sea and skin as fair and flawless as the first snows. Any warrior would count himself a lucky man to have a wife even half as beautiful as he. But the perfect image hides an abiding uncertainty, deep grief at the death of his father and uncertainty regarding his ascension to the throne. Upon him rests the hopes and dreams of all his people, their happiness, their faith, their very survival rests in his hands. Beneath it all lies a burning, smouldering wrath: he will never forgive the world for its scorn, its dismissive contempt. A certain vindictive cruelty consumes him. He will scorch his dreams into the living bones of the world itself and those who hate him will watch, helpless and impotent as he shapes the future to his liking.
Spells:
And All the Skalds Sing (Weaving+): 5
A myth is a living thing; a shared tapestry, a hundred thousand threads binding all who hear it together. Propagating out on their tongues, splitting and webbing endlessly on. Arkyn's myth is more alive than most. Those blessed with Mage Sight can almost see it, billowing behind him, around him, like some colossal symbiote. Know this: love nourishes it, fear sustains it...and its strength is his strength. It's power is his power. Devotion, faith, and trust in the High King enhances all other powers in proportion with the magnitude of contributing subjects. Pushing already potent abilities to frightening heights.

Magnanimity of the Serpent King (Perfecting+): 5
From his talons drip treasures, from his tongue flows the secret truths of the world; his bones are fate and his blood is fortune. Arkyn annoints his land and the people therein, privileging them above all others. Catastrophes that would ruin them are narrowly averted. Calamities that would tear them asunder dissipate before they fully materialize. A thousand strokes of good luck. A thousand boons and innumerable blessings. This he gives to his people.

Ancient Auguries Foretold (Knowing+): 4
Older than time and not yet come to pass, such is the paradox of the skeins of fate. Tended by the Norns and dispensed upon the world. Branched out upon eventual billions yet terminating down to a single point. While Arkyn cannot identify all possible futures and is, as all creatures, vulnerable to the utterly unexpected, he is able to follow the thickest strands of fate of the most likely outcomes of his larger scale decisions. Tracing the chains of events with unnerving accuracy, his enemies's probable plans unfolding before him before they are ever made.

Shimmering Seconds Unseamed (Weaving+): 5
The world ticks on, winding and wending until it's inevitable death in fire and flame. To struggle against it is madness. To countermand it impossible. The great events of the past cannot be undone. The world, once-made, cannot be unmade until the appointed time. Yet, for the truly powerful there is a path: fate, woven but not yet set, can be altered if only by a single thread. With this power Arkyn may walk back through the moments and repeat or alter a recent action. It's not much, a scrape of seconds, a few minutes at the maximum, but all too often it's enough.

The Blue Gore Seal (Ruling+): 5
All life is born from the meltwater that first flowed from Ymir, ancient patriarch of Giants. The sleeping bones of this slow-rotting world. Giant-blooded and kin to the great sea snake Jormungandr, Arkyn's affinity for this primeval ichor is two-fold and it, stirred by some half-aware consciousness, rushes to serve. With but an effort of will he can freeze vast, storm-swept waves or sublimate the blood in your body to steam. With one scaled hand he beckons and entire forests burst, the water of their trunks slicing out, creasing the ground with great rivers. Glacial ramparts, razored ribbons of water, the only limit is his range.

Corpse-Sweat Twitch (Patterning/Weaving): 7
This world was torn from the flesh of Ymir, his skull the sky, his brains the cloud, this land his bones. But something so vast cannot die as men do and shreds of that colossal mind linger in the earth and they know their kin. Their king. The world compresses, folds and distorts at Arkyn's will. A meter expands into a mile, a league compresses into an inch. Forward he strides and the decayed flesh of this world fires with spastic nerves, vast beyond reckoning, sleepily shifting to obey.

Carrion-Maggot Manifestation (Unmaking/Patterning): 9
The first men were born from the world's sweat, giants from his limbs, elves from the small crawling vermin. Life is a natural byproduct of the world, monstrous and mundane alike. The implications are unsettling, if such was born from but the meanest scraps then what else might lurk within? What maggots might blindly crawl, slowly chewing through the belly of a world-maker?Wonder no longer and witness the truth. With a roaring cry Arkyn strikes the ground and from the bowels of the earth surge forth titanic, phantasmal wyrms. Immense, pallid things, magic running through their ghostly, glacial blue flesh. Guts bloated on their repast. At his order they rampage forth, swelling further, shifting, mutating, molting; the fly within waiting to be born.
Bio: He was nobody special: an awkward, gangly young man who volunteered for experimentation, seeking some scrap of meaning, some trace of use in a nation that seemed to have no need for him. Half-crippled, the draconic stillborn within him, he attempted to find his way. Still trying, failing, striving to be the hero he longed to be. He is no longer that young man. He has gone farther than many. Seen more than all but a few. He has journeyed to Helheim, and eaten of the flesh of Nidhoggr, root-gnawer and woe-striker, and emerged reborn. Sharp, stonelike scales cling to his body. Powerful wings hang, half-folded over his shoulders; living gauntlets, organic greaves. He has brought to Kalmar knowledge of other worlds, other jotnar and for his bravery and boundless determination found himself much beloved by the High King. A sentiment that is warmly reciprocated.
Spells:
Woe-Striker's Wings (Patterning): 4
Stars burn beneath the membranes of Ingjaldr's wings, alien nebulae swirl and meteors flash. While they can bear him aloft in material spheres with but a twist they let him slip between. Fading between worlds at the weak points, journeying the twigs and boughs of Yggdrasill. Although he cannot properly teleport with them they do allow him to take shortcuts. Stepping into magical planes at one intersection, exiting at another.

Stone Hearth Scales (Shielding+): 4
Nidghorr lives in the very deepest hollows of the known Universe, beyond the reach of warmth, beyond the reach of light, and yet he persists. And yet he endures. The stony grey scales that partially cover Ingjaldr's body are only a portion of the living armor within him. By reflex he may draw forth the rest, encasing himself in an environmental armor able to resist hostile regions and even the most inhospitable extremes of heat, cold, darkness, and pressure.

Inner Celestial Codex (Knowing+/Unveiling+): 6
The thaumaturgic organs within Ingjaldr's body innately guide him with an accuracy to surpass even the most complicated of astronomical surveyors. He sees the branches of the World Tree, forking and dividing and brushing against each other. He sees how they intersect, where they lead and crook and curve. Yet, perhaps most importantly, he always knows where he himself is in relation to all else. Granting him an utterly uncanny sense of spatial awareness and direction.

Juggernaut Arsenal Viscera (Patterning): 4
Nidhoggr rips at the roots of the world yet is never sated, his innards a bottomless pit of want and gluttonous greed. Ingjaldr carries no pack and bears no pouch for he has no need, everything he might need to carry is borne with him in cavernous metaphysical "stomachs". Pockets of folded space anchored to his body, animate arsenals and traveling treasuries, living laboratories full of samples from all the nine realms and the spaces between. He may regurgitate the contents at any time, spilling them from the nothing into the open air through jagged, fanged portals.

The Only Me Is Me (Weaving/Knowing): 4
Murder, adultry, oath-breaking, such are the sins that bring you to Root-Gnawer's jaws. To the very lowest of the low, forgotten with all the weight of all the universe atop you as you are chewed alive and swallowed whole. Incorporated into the colossal beast's bulk. Ingjaldr works on a similar, albeit smaller, principle. Unfolding a second set of gleaming jaws he swallows the dead whole and digests them. Adopting their body as a disguise and rifling through their memories like a thief in the house.

Ownership By Consumption (Patterning): 4
The dragon chews upon the tendrils and twining growth of the god-tree, sucking vital nutrients from all the nine realms and investing them within himself. All that Ingjaldr places within his bellies he may infect with the eternal, unyielding energies of the Dragon Beneath the World. Artillery pieces twist and turn and rain down shells of dragon-fire. A stolen river vomits from empty space, waters swimming with strange, stone-toothed fish. Nidghoggr would see all the Universe inside his stomach and a portion of this almighty greed persists in his champion and adopted heir.


Crown Swallowing Gullet (Unmaking/Perfecting): 8
Magic is the art of manipulating the world, the method by which the will is made manifest. A symbol of authority and knowledge and wealth. Nidhoggr only stretches his lips wide and licks his chops,. Even the primeval forces will fill him, even such cosmic vitality will sustain him. Ingjaldr may consume hostile magic inflicted upon him and channel it into his own form. Boosting his own abilities for a time until the stolen, swallowed power is fully digested..

Birth By Death (Patterning/Shielding): 6
At the end of days the dragon will rise and in so doing be reborn, shedding the accouterments of death the innumerable corpses as he swarms up the trunk of the tree. From the corpse, creation, from the charnel house the world rises anew. Corpses across the field of battle fly to the wounded Ingjaldr, drawn like filings to the magnetic pole. Around him they form the shell, shielding his injured body from harm. Within he is revitalized, within even the most grievous of injuries are sealed and his body healed, returning him to the fray fresh and whole.

yeah yeah getcher bitchin' out of the way and stuff everyone. :p At least I'm doing fluff for each of 'em.
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Looks good ATM. Mostly shields, hammerspace, and some utility.
 
Wade Garrett said:
> Become Pope
> Pope is infallible
> "By the power vested in me as an infallible Pope I declare female clergy are now fine."

Checkmate atheists.
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The Mughals recognize all religious as having some element of Truth within them.

But BRASS SERPENT SLAVE-LIBERATING CROMWELL-KILLING ANTI-POPE is much more truthful than a dodgy old man with a tall hat. :V
 
Rolling for Theming and Round 1 Bonus.

7+2 (Populism Bonus from 20 mil)+2 (Strannik Dmitri Committed)+2 (Naglfar Sponsorship)-8= 4 (5 reduced to max bonus).
Cetashwayo threw 1 6-faced dice. Reason: Quest Theming Total: 1
1 1
Cetashwayo threw 4 3-faced dice. Reason: Round One Bonus Total: 7
1 1 1 1 3 3 2 2
 
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