The poet stared at the parchment that they wrote on, namely the fingerprint they had left on the edge of the paper due to accidentally dipping it in undried ink. The paper was crisp with black lettering that read again a cryptic and Jacobinist message. The figure's mouth pulled into a frown as they lifted the paper with their fingertips as if it were venomous, staring at the mark.
This was their print. The swirls on the mark were just their very own. Their's and also the one of someone that people actually knew. Someone that wasn't a shadow-stalking message-bearer. Though there wasn't anyway someone could use the print to track them down, for here was no one in the whole of Regalia who would likely look at the finger of all those in...
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Inventory Split Incoming
MassiveCraft will be implementing an inventory split across game modes to improve fairness, balance, and player experience. Each game mode (Roleplay and Survival) will have its own dedicated inventory going forward. To help players prepare, we’ve opened a special storage system to safeguard important items during the transition. For full details, read the announcement here: Game Mode Inventory Split blog post.
Your current inventories, backpacks, and ender chest are in the shared Medieval inventory. When the new Roleplay inventory is created and assigned to the roleplay world(s) you will lose access to your currently stored items.
Important Dates
- April 1: Trunk storage opens.
- May 25: Final day to submit items for storage.
- June 1: Inventories are officially split.
Please make sure to submit any items you wish to preserve in the trunk storage or one of the roleplay worlds before the deadline. After the split, inventories will no longer carry over between game modes.
Player Stories
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Cerridynn paced around the hallway of her little medicine shop, a large ledger in her hands that was bound by worn leather. This ledger was nothing to do with keeping track of her income, it was instead filled with pledges accumulated from her time in Regalia. Cerridynn muttered to herself over and over again about her plans, never once ceasing her constant pacing and rythmic click click of her heeled boots.
The hallway was narrow and had few doorways leading to other parts of the building. Storage, preparation area and even a room she slept and wrote her evening letters. Every wall was lined at the bottom with concrete held stone which only edged inches off the ground before changing to planks of aged wood, which in turn was hidden...
A heavy sigh, firm hands gripping the balcony railing. The figure upon the balcony relished in the peaceful atmosphere that surrounded her home. Yet she had never regretted it more..
Gone..
All gone. She could almost not believe it..
She had wished for peace, but now that she had it she didn’t want it?
Four roommates..all gone.
Lathai off home due to the sickness, the forbidden carried with him. Raja unfocused and leaving both the guard and now her once home. Lastly, Clinton, the ever-ambitious, moved out to find his own way..
The only thing she had left jumped up on the railing next to her settling down. She placed a hand in its fluffy fur giving it a pat. Senior Garra..Lathai had named it..
The Northerner drew herself up a deep...
Hello, Old Friend
The night was a welcome cover for the figure, the noir sky blending in rather nicely with her brown locks and her midnight azure cowl. The figure moved swiftly from the floating vessel on which she ventured to the Crown Isle; her home- for now at least. The crashing waves and familiar scents were a warm welcome, which would easily suffice far more than any human interaction would.
White strips of linen lines her hands, which were tainted red-- a nasty contrast in comparison of the ocean blue silks she adorned.
The chill of the wind did nought in the ways of throw her off; she merely kept on clip-clopping onwards for what felt like an age. Finally, the sounds emanating from her heels on the stone path came to...
The crowded tavern full of people, a woman in red beckoning her over to a booth.
Walks in the park.
Fuzzy images flashing in her mind.
A stab, a bite, and broken fingers.
Blurs of flowers littering her vision.
A bang, screams, and a bright light blinding her sight.
Amelina woke with a jump, for the third night in a row she had the same dream. The same dream that caused her to sit in front of a window until dawn broke.
Her eyes bloodshot as she watched her reflection in the mirror, she moved to make her way out of her room. She creeped down the hallway to check on her sisters’ then moved to her cousin’s room to check if he was still there.
She watched him for a moment, watching his scarred cheek puff with each breath he took.
Amelina...
It was around sundown in a tavern, located among one of the most busiest streets. One walking down the road wishing for a drink will see the leaves turning red as they readied themselves to perish for their branch when winter came. One could notice, in the tavern so busy in the night's coming, an old man wearing a black cloak, scars along his face, holding a cane with a golden hilt. He held a hat holding a few regals, looking around often, at times locking his gaze with someone asking with the same raspy words, "Come sit and I shall tell you a story, just offer one Regal and my tale is yours." he said with a toothy grin. Slowly as he invited people to gather around, people came to gather around the sinister-looking man. Bobbing his hand...
The room had been dark for nearly three hours past the rise of the Regalian sun. The Wodenstaff nanny crept into the nursery of one, seeing how the other babes were off elsewhere. In her slumber, the little girl that laid curled up underneath her blankets took no notice of her caretaker until the sudden break of daylight in her room, causing her arm to lift on instinct to protect her eyes. The nanny stood by the window of the room, drawing back the curtains of the nursery in a way to, not only lighten up the tired room, but also the tired three year old. Mathurine whined, rubbing her small fists against her eyes when it finally came to being lifted from the warmth of her sheets, the cooling air having seeped a bit into the room from the...
Theme I | Theme II | Theme III
The aged and rotten floorboards creaked eerily in a run down sewer shack amidst the Chrysant War. Drops of sewage water and other unnamed foreign liquids fell from the decomposing oak wood ceiling, though it was never much of a ceiling at all, regarding it’s duty to provide shelter and protection to those who found themselves lingering in such surroundings. A family of Slizzar lived in such a place, breathed such air, yet had such hope for a better tomorrow. The Kalzai’s: Eric, his brother Xyrsi, and his mother Ssylvania.
Ssylvania raised her beastly boys to develop a bitter and prejudiced view towards mankind: Ailor. The opinionated majority of mankind had also developed a similar view directed...
The Ithanian hummed as she rested her palms on her cheeks, gazing at her reflection a moment before sticking her tongue out in a mock disgusted expression only to make herself laugh much like a child. The woman pulled her hands off her cheeks, the light makeup on them make her fingers a dusty red color. She brushed her hands off on her skirt before picking up a comb and pulling it through her wavy hair, her humming beginning again for the few moments that her attention were no where else but herself. As self-centered as it might seem, these were the rare moments she didn't concern herself with others. Her love hasn't yet picked a fight today, her shop hadn't burned to the ground, and no one was trying to destroy her sketchbooks so for...
The sword's hilt rested heavily in her palm, foreign yet close, like an old friend that hasn't been seen in months. That was what the blade was to the woman- an old friend. Through her years of mental turmoil, she had rejected the thought of being a fighter, bending to the culture that she hated. The culture of pacifists and war-haters that she had long since rejected, but in those three years of torture, she had become like them. Sickened by even the thought to weld her trusted weapon.
She lifted the blade, through those months she had only trained with a dulled or wooden weapon. Her skills were still sharp, but she couldn't bring herself to lift her sword. Her own sword, the one that she had had since she was a child of sixteen. The...
"It was midnight fall upon the slums dark alley, and many cloaked figures with bitter frozen hands walked into a tavern with dragons on back. The meeting had started to discuss their future, their hopes and dreams now scattered anew, a crimson headed woman whom downed in feathers raised her hand and laid waste to silence."
A Phoenix Calls - Scribed by Kaldric Bordor
Within the slums, somewhere between the main gate and the vampire district, seventeen shadows had gathered under the moon-lit and candle-lit glow to discuss the future of their families. The people varied from Ailor to Isldar with all stoic faces that could pierce the soul. They sat around a round oval table, made of pine and oak in a room without a roof. Their was little...
The woman stared into her reflection, drawing in a slow and steady breath. She'd awaken with a start that morning, cold for a moment with sweat from the terror that interrupted her dreams. The nightmares by these years were beginning to lessen, luckily. Her hand lifted to gently brush back a long bang from her eyes, reflection showing her pale skin was no longer such, beginning to tan again despite the cold months to come.
For years, since the birth of her daughter, Juliette had suffered. She'd closed herself off from the world and seen herself as someone just barely above the current, struggling to stay afloat. Her husband had held her hand, lead her forward and she knew, deep down, that she wasn't going to give up in the end. The...
Dear Hengest. I was found in the supply closet, drunk and spouting off nonsense about shields. Anton said to write you a letter. What happened is what follows.
I didn’t know it would lead to this. I had been sitting in my house, drinking some cider that Susan had given me out of the kindness of her own heart, when a thought jumped out at me. My shield was all alone, all by himself. He shouldn’t have to be alone every night, should he? I had decided then and there I should visit the Black Tower. Maybe I could ask Hengest to take it home? I don’t know, I was drunk.
I had managed to fool the people on duty that I was there to begin my patrols, but alas I hunkered down in the supply room, right next to my shield. I had taken it down at...
Her feet carried her senselessly through the slums, having a mind of their own as hers had wandered off into places long since forgotten. The masked woman's hands were still at her sides even as she tripped and fell into the earth, senses far too lost in her head to notice any of it. The Etosian squeezed her eyes closed and pulled her branded hand up to cover them even while they were already shielded. The air about her smelled of liquor and smoke, hinting to the cause of her situation.
The woman in her own mind was not lying on the ground, drunk out of her mind, but rather wander the lone and dark halls of her mind. Her feet continued to carry her forward when she hit a wall.
It wasn't a brick or stone wall, though it was sturdy. She...
MOTHER AND SON: PART ONE
Thorlad: 16 + 4 (age in story) = 20
Cerridynn: 36 - 16 (years she has had him) = 20
Wearing a robe and her hair full of knots, Cerridynn padded down the hallway to the main hearth of her home. A glow of coals from the hearth, located at the center of the room, illuminated the spacious area.
Drying herbs hung from a rack at the ceiling which was attached by lengths of cord to the rafters arching across as support beams for the roof. Logs held said rafters in place and were decorated with fabrics of reds and blues, runic carvings ran the length of some logs to bring flare to the room. Few wolf furs piled neatly across seats surrounding the hearth which made way for eating at the fire itself or at the grand oak...
The woman was anything but what one might call okay.
In the current moment, she was curled up on her bed on her left side, face closed in pain as she fought off the returning ache in her injured shoulder. The Claith recalled the expedition that caused the wound, flinching lightly as she though about how stupid she had been to even try going to a warfront, even as someone with such a mundane reason as 'translator'. She shifted slightly under the covers, wincing a bit as she tried to rest as easily as she could on her back- staring upwards at the ceiling in the sunlit room.
The sky was bright outside the small, corner home. The beams of the sun invading the copper-haired woman's room and telling her that she shouldn't be lazying about...
Why her? She is an interesting case to say the least. Not particularly one to grow fond over, nor even enjoy the pleasures of in the simplest forms. Yet I chose her. My own daughter. She was alone, a curious girl. Perhaps her curiosity was the intrigue. She was lost, alone, nothing. In my own benevolence she has blossomed. She has been reformed within my own image. At first I regretted not selling the girl off. Her body was not broken, she was more than capable, yet I kept her for my own. Not for my own inner desires and lustful intentions, no. The sins of the body were not meant to befall this creature. She is my own. A monster formed from my other desires, an unexplainable longing. Yes. She is my daughter as I have made her what she...
He'd grown up too fast.
He knew it. His family knew it. Everyone around him knew it. But there were times, when he wished he could've been a child for a bit longer, made it last just a little more time.
Times like now.
His brothers child, asleep on his bed, himself sat in a chair, head on the desk as he slumped forwards, sighing. This was a mess. And of course he was in Regalia for it. He'd arrived only 4 days ago, and already the estate next door is spreading rumors about them. It took self-control to not throw stuff through their windows, but that was bad etiquette, so it was a no. Didn't mean he liked them- especially not that damn Nathaniel. Shoving his fat nose where it doesn't belong. Well, he'd never seen Nathan before, but...
Theme I | Theme II | Theme III
Authors: @GrandVitaMorte, @JennaLikesCoffee
The capital ship of the Krupp family creaked eerily with the passing of the day, sailors of Velheimer and Calemberg descent worked tirelessly upon the craft. Eske however was away, within the cabins of the ship he sat at his desk and wrote away within his journal, the day moving unending to him as he wrote, planned, strategized, and prepared for the inevitable battles to be won and fought. His room was unlocked and his weaponry was off to the side against the wall, the Ulfmaerr colors faded by use and time.
A young and brutish woman from the Kingdom of Hedryll had also found herself in similar circumstances. Inkeri, one of the very last of the Årud...
Jamie's joints, tight and aching from his previous desk-bound vigil, sighed in relief as the Rosendahl reached towards the sky. In awe of how Jamie's body was elongating, the patriarch's jaw soon stretched of its own volition, spreading wide in a massive yawn. An odd sense of relief burrowed its way into Jamie's chest, eventually escaping and rising into the atmosphere through a breath of air. Strangely enough, the clouds decided to mimic Jamie's sigh of relief, liberating the liquid previously incarcerated within their weightless bodies. Although Jamie had the sense to bring an extra coat in anticipation of a fall shower, it proved too weak to withstand the heavy rain.
Despite the soaking, however, Jamie seemed infinitely more at...
So I wuz playin ma gud ole wolathar Lorsany Tarate(An old tripping out on shrooms wolathar) and I decided to break up these two lovebird's date, one thing led to another, I get stranded on a boat with the girl and some weird stuff goes down fast...
It was a somber and empty night in the sewers as the wolathar emerged from the depths of the murky water. He met the eyes of a young lad on the dock who had been about to step into a boat with a beautiful young redhead. Lorsan eyed the man up and down in his weird, unkempt red outfit. The man got a little weirded out as the boat with the young lady in it drifted off. Lorsan swam out into the water and launched himself on the boat, knocking the ores overboard as they...
The shadow moved along the outer wall of the city, following the wall outside the Slums after checking the hole in the wall and discovering the entrance still covered and locked up. They turned their face up to peer at the nightly sky that they traveled under. The poet lowered their hood and smoothed their hair before unclasping the thin chain on the cloak they had worn for the many nights that their papers plagued the city of sicknesses.
They pulled the cloak off their shoulders and folded it in their arms before kneeling by the wall, pushing aside some foliage and resting the cloak inside the small space hidden half under the bricks of the barrier after making sure no snakes resided into the hole. They brushed their hand on the...
Fires in the night, along Southern Czabri Bone Shore
Riding alongside Companions and two Ulfmaerr kin, Virathus frowned as he rode past the great lodges built by the Calembergers. Scant were signs of the many tools and metals, scavenged by Velheimer raiders or towed behind the cowering raided peoples. The husks of the halls remained - gutted or collapsed.
Having sent word to his brother, weary looking bannermen lead Count Krupp to the younger Pius Krupp's burnt out estate. Furrowing a brow and suspicious of treachery, Virathus looked between the men - but all they offered was a stiff aversion of his gaze, or forlorn looks. Stopping before the estate he granted his brother, he entered the burned hall draped in dread.
Skeletons...
A sudden thump reverberated from the upstairs chambers, briefly dispelling the palpably silent air that had draped the estate in the last two days. Jamie's surge of anger and subsequent slam of his desk were both courtesies of yet another memorandum that had been delivered by a raven (amusingly enough) just minutes prior. The Rosendahl seldom fell prey to bursts of rage; this was one of those rare moments.
Electing to release his frustration through the floorboards, Jamie began marching back and forth, his back stiff with exasperation. His earlier moments of playing and laughing with little Theodore seemed centuries away. Although the Rosendahl's thoughts were preoccupied with the sudden decimation of House Bigge's levies, the...
It wasn't long before news of the Ravenstad's invasion on Peirgarten holdings touched the Rosendahl's ears. As soon as Jamie released the revealing letter it retreated to its original curl, almost as though it wished to shield the public from its harrowing contents. Despite the consternation festering deep within his gut, Jamie managed to maintain his composure, simply meandering on upstairs towards his desk in the fashion with which he typically concluded his evenings. Easing his compact frame onto his favored oaken chair, Jamie reached for a quill, drenching it in ink before scratching out a message with preternatural vigor.
The missive was short and concise, giving no hint as to the fury and anxiety swimming through the patriarch's...
Further than the eye could see, peaks sprung from the mountaintop as men marched through the misty and treacherous lands.
Labyrinthine was the river the men followed, flanked by steep cliffs. Virathus lost himself for many moments as he took in what he saw, soon recognizing the men he marched with; Hengest Harhold, Reddulf Ruyter - all men dressed in the Bastion black and white. They followed Charles Montagaard and Johann Eschevard, who rode ahead of the men slowly as they conversed. As they carried on, the Krupp wondered if this was a dreamscape - he became confused at the sight of his dead mentors.
Tendrils of darkness seems to form from the mist, making it difficult to see ahead of his Undercrown and Kommandant. Suddenly, their...
He sits in the dirty attic of a good friend, his belongings sorted into loose piles. Strewn about him were about a dozen of his prized, dearest. . . only, possessions, all of which he ignores as he crouches, staring at the grimy floor where he sleeps. His finger traces the groves in the wood, pausing at the indentations that his ridges and spikes made in the once-smooth wood. “This is being a temporary thing,” he had said. “I am having plans! The Sun will be accepting fresh men soon, and I will be staying at the mercenary keep, so I will be paying you back.”...
Well, he had been half-right. It was definitely a ‘temporary thing’, as he had said. He’d never get to pay Tisi back though.
He sighs, a dull pain in his chest had been...
The strong scent of cinnamon and rose scented candles filed the dark attic up, it’s flickering light was the only thing that illuminated the little space. Its light bounced off the contour of a well dressed young man, sitting by what seemed like a grand oak piano. The instrument was beautiful, decorated with the golden roses of House Talurêffe along its legs, and lid.
The man, upon closer inspection, was the heir to the Talurêffe fortunes; Jêan-Gaston. Jêan ran his fingers along the keys of the instrument, humming lightly to himself as the soft tunes slowed his heart-rhythms, and calmed him. His expertise with the instrument was made more impressive once one saw his eyes. Where most of the Talurêffe children had sea-green eyes, Jêan’s...
Deep within the halls of Midgal, Eske and the rest of the Ulfmaerr slept soundly within their bunks, on tables, floors, and generally anywhere they fell unconscious from a drunken stupor. That night the winds blew a bitter cold breeze as the moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the land with an eery blue glow. Yet all of a sudden, in a violent eruption of sound came a large explosion from the western walls of the city. Splintered wood and fire rose up into the sky and changed the lands hue from blue to orange in a near instant. Eske and the Ulfmaerrs awoke, hearing the screams and sounds of battle commencing outside they readied their equipment and dawned their armoring. Eske picked up his spear and shield and took with him a box of...
The Bloodhound laid on the navy colored carpet of the bedroom, staring at the woman who was resting on the bed. Her gaze was pinned on the empty wall across from her, the sadness that filled his lady nearly so strong that the mutt could smell it. The young yet nearly fully grown canine crawled forward on his paws, lifting himself up once he reached the bed to look into the eyes of his owner.
While their noses nearly touched, the woman's gaze seemed not to notice her beloved Ceardian Bloodhound. A small tear escaped her eyes and the dog licked her cheek to try and ease her sadness. The woman's eyes snapped suddenly to focus on the dog, a sniff escaping her and her hand lifted weakly to pat the bed. With the invitation, the dog gingerly...
It was a depressingly dark night that evening. The air was thick with the smells of Velheim merriment as the celebrations of Ivars return commenced amongst his village. Yet as he sat awake at night with charcoal pencil in hand and journal ready to be written within he gave a heavy exhale to the breeze, flickering the candle below him with his breathe.
<N> "Dear journal, I grow conflicted. Will my ancestors forsake me for my decision? Will the God's turn their backs or embrace me with open arms?"
The books only reply was a silent crinkling of it's page turning from a breeze.
<N> "Of course... I suppose you are right in that regard dear journal. I must walk my own path and forge a new trail for those who come after myself. Maybe then...
Dear Journal,
The boats were delayed yet another few days. I grow tired of this endless waiting. I had been on the passage back to Regalia from the front originally but the bastards and their scheduling failures decided to forget my name on the roster, delaying me an extra week. However! All this plague talk has got people worked up about "health and wellness". Now bugs are getting pregnant as well? I know the strength of science are endless but is there ever a point where it is going to far? To massacre one to ressurect another? Dakkar were useful. Never really saw much from the Circci, hopefully they make themselves useful to the military of the Empire.
Anyway dear journal, how are you today? Your pages feel damp, are you also...
We have not spoken in quite some time, you and I. Your skin coarse to the touch and your clothes a binding. As my quill touches your pages I grow concerned.. what will I write today for you? An ode or tale? An oddessy or something like an oddity...I am curious, my Journal. How do you fare? The winds of fall bring the leaves around our home down in great bundles and the God's know I am not yet tired of the scent of the trees. Yet, I am struck ever still, the blood of comrades left upon the sand of Farahdeen burdens my core ever so dear journal. I have had to kill an enemy that only wished to defend it's home. Not that I am really bothered by it, it is simply war and battle, the Emperor and the Generals and the Lord Commander called for...
No decent folk walked the streets of the Slums. Certainly not at that hour, nor with weapons bared. Yet young Elros strode through the alley, cleaning his blade as he went. This job had been necessary to eat, to continue his mission in the City. It hadn't proved fatal, and no job would if he had his say. Still, beating a man senseless had challenged him. He had moved too slowly and had needed to engage in this work to survive. But when would it all-
And then the man in rags threw his mud-covered arms around him, tackling him to the ground and shaking him. The young man scrambled, his blade had fallen far away. His cryostim smashed to bits under him, as the muddied beggar pummeled his face. With skin rashed and inflated, his frenzy...
The leaves fell, crimson autumn colored like the sunset, crimson like his mane gently dancing in the wind, crimson like the blood seeping from his mouth, and crimson like the dying of the light reflecting on his eyes. There was fiery passion in his eyes, but also restraint. Power in the way he walked, yet he also moved with poise. Strength in the breath escaping his lungs, forming clouds of warm breath visible in the cooling temperatures, yet it was rhythmic and controlled. This was a hunt that Magnus has never witnessed before. The Horned Throng gave nothing of the sorts, they were wild, barbaric even. The hunt to them was a violent orchestra of claws and fangs and horns. Splatters of blood sprayed onto the fresh snow giving eagle...
Caoess'alloa laid in her small, cramped bed with wool blankets surrounding her wounded and now fragile body as the rain poured through the open windows, into the slum's home and onto the red carpets. The thunder echoed in Caoess'alloa's pounding skull while she flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears stung her closed eyes, and tingled her nose in the most unpleasant of ways as she sniffled and hiccupped from the previous sessions of sulking.
While the Avanthar waited for her "knight in shining armor", known as Averil to send word for help, all she could do was lie in her bed and hope to the Old Gods she didn't pass in her sleep if she happened to fall unconscious. She continued to fall into her thoughts of what was after death, what...
Eugh...
Defeated she slipped the key in, a tiny clink sounding followed by the thunk of the door closing swiftly behind. Her mask was first to come off; a gaunt expression revealing itself before the last wafts of vinegar escaped her nose. Trudging on over to the stairwell she would then take to removing her boots, bare footed she plodded softly upstairs. Tired hands came up to loosen her ribbons, threads of hair fell loose in a mess over her shoulders. At the foot of her bed she simply slumped, eventually curling on up sniffling. The tiniest of smiles graced her lips as she felt a familiar hand threading through her hair, curling itself around several of her locks. Raising her own hand on up to meet it she would guide it on down to...
The Altalar's body rolled down the murky water of the sewer canal. He had only been gently pushed forth, though his out of place arm made it difficult to swim, near impossible really. Father reached out with his available hand, taking hold of broken beams rising out from the murky depths. In time he climbed out, taking hold of a neighboring ladder and reaching the surface. His free hand no longer held a cloth to cease his bleeding mouth. To hold his filthy hand there would be the most repulsive thing the Alta-Altalar had experienced.
The elf walked down the narrow streets and passages, still maintaining his high posture and poise as best as possible. He sought medical attention. A foreign and uncommon concept to one of his affliction...
The woman sat in the dead center of her bed, legs crossed and the blankets of the large bed pulled over and around her like a thick winter coat. Her glum gaze sat on the door, waiting for anyone to appear. Lautaro had excused himself several hours after Mathurine had been welcomed into the world and since then he'd been kept quite busy- when he wasn't in such a state the man tended to drift after his daughter, keeping eye on the nurses and nannies as to make sure his kin was in the best of care.
While it was understandable to fret after your newborn, he'd mistakenly began to fall back into his habit of not being quite social with his wife except the few moments before they slept in which they were in the same room and had no jobs to...