Some time ago…
Off the coast of Southern Brissaud…
Water...Water...all around us, How does so much empty vastness exist?
A schooner broke through the crashing waves, its sails whipped around the stormy winds. The lone ship was thrown from side to side, but consistently stood on course. Her experienced crew moved about the vessel, ensure the rigging held firm in the face of such adversity.
It flew a single flag from its halliard; bearing a sigil of a roaring bear; and continued propelling its way through the stormy seas. It was once a beautiful vessel, with darkened lacquered beams lining it. Age and neglect have done its toll on the ship, and now only peeling paint could be found all across its sorry state.
In a lone...
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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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A card flicked and there were groans and shouts of excitement. Juliette tipped her glass back, elbowing the Northerner besides her to do the same with a slight grin. Glass after glass, spirit after spirit, the group drained their glasses card by card. They laughed and grumbled and one by one, the members fell away by either spilling their drinks back up or claiming they’d had enough. Soon enough, the cheating Northerner and Ithanian mutt were the only lasting players, hitting their last glasses. The Ithanian girl tipped her head back and took her last drink, she knew, as her friend only grinned, playing off as an honest player until the girl bolted out to the tavern gardens and lost her stomach in the bushes, coughing still when her...
Johnathan sat on the bed In his cabin of the ship, eyes closed, but a restless look on his face. He exhaled, as he tried to sort through the jumbled thoughts in his mind... "Do the ends justify the means?..." "No, they do not," "why can't they?" Johnathan tried to make the voices in his head go quiet, but he could not, an old memory of something Nathaniel Bigge said popped I to his head. "You won't survive the world of politics with honor..." He paraphrased under his breath... The voices came back. "Yes you can,". "no you can't,". Finally, the Count stood up, slammed his fist against the wall, as he said in an audible voice "Be quiet!" He slumped down into a chair, and held up the necklace that a boy, no older than twelve gave him...
Erhard had enjoyed his retirement to some degree. The aging Alt-Regalian was infuriated when he was honorably discharged form the navy. He still had the spark, the drive, the skill. However, he accepted the lot that was given to him, living peacefully within in Drachenburg. The old man's mind still continued to run through military strategy and planning so naturally the elder Drache had the latest in military tactics brought to his desk. With every battle, siege, conquest the Empire engaged in Erhard Drache sat in the castles war room, drawing up plans that 'he would have done'. He continued this practice for the entirety of his retirement up until current events with the Empires various marks. The elder was baffled beyond belief...
Moonlight shone in through her open window as a warm summer breeze ruffled the drapes. Darcie laid in bed, her fingers curled into the pillow as she tossed and turned, attempting to make herself comfortable in the large, familiar bed. Settling upon her side, she stared toward her vanity table and what was upon it.
Most of the items were part of the noble woman’s daily toiletry: perfume bottles, skin creams, a jewelry box and a hairbrush or two. Along with these normal, assumed items, were a collection of letters and a small box that was firmly closed.
Darcie lifted herself from beneath the covers and sat down at her vanity. Her hands, shaking slightly, lifted up the top most piece of paper. Her fingers moved over the long since dried...
“ Perhaps these misty woods will shimmer brightly one day”
A burnished figure trawled through sludge and soil, making his way through a land which never thrived, a fitting monument to a tomb of despair for an entire people. At Starlight, he unhinged a mottled cloak and flung it into the swamps. It bore his house colors, but it mattered little in his destination.
The only visiting figure in a postage-sized community situated on the tip of South Brissiaud, he was met kindly by his brethren. Asmar boasted all the conveniences of a rural community, only contrasted by the vibrant colors that its people wore. Invited to a meal to a house built of stone and timber, the figure ventured to a nearby stream, washing his hands and forearms with...
The hour was growing late as the large, almost full moon crept into the center of the Summer sky above, casting a sharp light down onto the manor which sat overlooking a small, quaint town that had begun to settle for the night. Lights were blown out, carts and shops locked up tight and it all grew still. A soft breeze blew through the cool night air and brushed against few trees and shrubbery that encompassed the estate and town alike. However, the various insects and other wildlife that inhabited the gardens and trees around the estate were not the only living things moving this night. Screams of a woman echoed through the manor’s premises, bouncing off of every surface possible and quickly kicking the maids and servants into motion...
Mugs slammed and men roared, a tavern full of life with lights glowing dim into the sand and reflecting off the dew-covered leaves of the tropical canopy above. The sunkissed ailor that bustled about in groups of two, three, many. Their glasses never empty of ale and rum as many tavern wenches poured from their pitchers as to never let the lips of the patrons dry.
One group of patrons in particular were especially intoxicated, a group of sailors. Some Daen, some D’Ithanie, others were Ceardian. All were plastered off their asses. The way they flung regals and slammed drinks was a sight to see for the tenders of the Twisted Grove.
The tavernmaid catering to the table was a younger orc woman, cuffs on her ankles and wrists showed her...
The first petal falls.
Ambiance.
The faint sound of rustling paper and then the sound of the crumpling it as well as the loud beating heart is all that reaches Raina’s ears. The silence within the large estate seeming to be haunting the young girl. The dimly lit room, the only light coming from the slowly dying candle on the dresser that sat snugly up against the bed. As the silence finally seemed to sink into the young girl's mind all seemed to shatter slowly. Her once strong heart slowly cracking back into its seemingly natural fragile state. In that moment she felt her breath slowly leaving her before a sickening sob left her lips as she crumpled down onto her bed. As much as she'd hate to admit, her tears still flowed even after...
A pink sunset.
Ambiance.
A flourish of vibrant shades of pink and a box full of chocolates. The remedy to a fragile, cracking heart of an innocent noble girl.
A young, fragile noble girl walked along the path through the park as the sun shone brightly in the sky. In her grasp was a bouquet of various shades of pink peonies and in her other hand held a book and a small box of chocolates. Her pace suddenly picked up as she got closer to the looming estate near the park, her feet hitting the gravel and dirt path before beginning to tap against the stone floor as she got closer to the stone staircase before quickly stepping up the stairs and pushing open the door. The girl would quickly move through the estate, attempting to avoid the...
She'd decided that maybe it was time to take it slow and read a book for once after collapsing onto her bed and wishing for death. The girl had switched into a shift to sleep in despite knowing that would take a bit. She'd never felt like this before; worn to the bone and sore all over. The maid she'd requested to help her dress had been rather shocked by the large bruise that covered her side, put there by the hit from the Orc in the tavern.
She still shuddered at the thought, especially the aftermath of Valbrand’s blade find its way through her attacker’s chest. Worms had come creeping out from the bloody wound and she hadn't decided whether they had actually been there or if it had been an illusion. The reminder that Britta had...
Carthas sat alone in his chamber. He was perplexed to say the least. How could this happen? What is this that is happening? This is a feeling that is both foreign and familiar. That girl, there was something about her. Almost as if he knew her as well as he knew himself. Carthas continued to think on it more. Is this what love feels like? The eunuch had difficulties grasping if this was truly the emotion he felt. Without any sexual longings it veiled the identity of this emotion. Still, it feels like love. Or at least a vague concept of what love is. The heretic thought further on this emotion. It certainly is one that was reserved only for himself. Yet, there it is, existing in this... girl. She couldn't be that much older than his...
This takes place about this time this morning.
@AntonVoron @Tiber_ @PonyoWantHam
Mud sprung into the air as sturdy hooves connected with the half-cobbled road, the wet, soggy dirt flinging to either side of the path, painting the flora and heathland canvas synonymously, causing a line of abstract paintings to trail behind the party of horses and riders as they traversed the beaten path. In the early morning like this, grey, misty fog hung with moisture low above the ground, clouding the grazing sheep and making it a challenge for even the best of eyes to see what lies ahead. The sun could barely peek over the clouds today, no more than they could the dense fog that permeated around the travelers. Adversely, it did little to...
On the Isle of Eriu-Innis, a young woman set her baby daughter in her cradle, humming softly a moment as the light of her candle bounced off the uneven stone walls of her home. Her husband was away in a town, maybe buying things like he had said he was planning to do or maybe sleeping with some unwed Claith, like many lonely men do. The woman, her ginger hair pulled back in a knot at her head, sat down at her desk and lifted the necklace she wore over her head, holding it by the small charm on it; a clay bumblebee, beautifully crafted like many things from Crown Isle. She studied the charm a minute more before carefully setting it down besides her as she set an inkwell, quill, and cheap piece of parchment on the desk she sat at. Slowly...
The taste of blood filled his mouth, a bitter and harsh taste that he was all too familiar with. His gaze whizzed over the letter once more, and again, and again. His eyes began watering, as his clutch tightened around the parchment. Blood dripped down from his lip, yet he continued chewing, perhaps subconsciously. Once more, he read it over,
“We’re sending this letter to inform you of the untimely passing of House Silevon’s former Matriarch, Larasviel Silevon. She passed on, leaving her daughter and grandson behind to prepare the funeral services. Soon after, Breon Johanna Hölzer Silevon left her young boy, Ahlwin Hölzer in our care, and went away. The boy is safe.
- Guro Ulfdöttir Silevon”
It couldn’t be, the Isldar clutched down...
Ambiance.
Damn the Northman. Damn him for what he caused.
That is what the Nelfin thought to herself while she stepped off the carriage, now in the territory of Rothburg. Her steps, usually styled with grace and weightless elegance, were now riddled with wobbles -- tripping here and there right off the bat. With an empty bottle in hand, the former Silveirall trudged not for the palace, but for the off-path that led into the village. The carriage driver seemed to pay no mind to Seris's given state. She was a knife ear, after all.
Seris could not help but recollect all of what happened throughout the months. The arrest, the wait, the week in the shabby, window-less cell, the interrogation, and everything after. Was it all really...
---------------------------------------------
The sound of a loud burp was heard through the ship. He was there again, as the night before and the night before that. He thought of the night's events, he thought of Tanoro, his son. He thought of the boy he was and the man he’d become, he was different. Tanoro was such a fragile boy he assumed, he couldn’t hurt a fly, but he hurt a lot more than a bug, the man glanced to his leg that was wrapped in a bloody old shirt. The man took yet another swig from the mug of ale as he looked up in thought. Something was bothering him, the recurring image of Tanoro’s face as the moon lit over it, he knew he hurt the boy, but then he thought of Ardige, he clenched his fists, it was him who took his boy...
(Written in response to the recent world progression. Turns out I wanted to write a story, so here it is.)
Some logistics tent in Drixagh
News of the failed smoke attempts didn't even have to reach the Lieutenant General's tent for him to find out. He witnessed first hand on the front lines as the supposed assault was easily dealt with. It didn't take long after that to hear the rumor circulate of the new revolts in the region. The Alt-Regalian paused a few moments, wondering what he did wrong. Was it not fair to show some mercy to those who were revolting? After all, didn't he feel the same way only months before.
He stood outside his tent contemplating these thoughts. He had usually attempted to deal with things diplomatically...
Hand in hand, the dark-haired beauty and her daughter made their way slowly down the main road of Regalia. Slow and steady so that the young girl, only just past being a tot, could keep in step with her mother. The mother's steps looked painfully slow, yet she didn't seem bothered, enjoying the Summer breeze that whispered past and blew a lock of her black hair across her face.
The daughter smiled her beautiful little smile that tugged at her mother's heartstrings, making her wish the little girl never grew up to face the harsh realities. The realities of where beauty sometimes took you, or war, or love. But this love was innocent and unbreaking, something the mother would never lose unlike the loves she'd had before. The soldier, the...
How dare he?
Her teeth were gritted to the point of cracking, fingers so tightly held that she felt the bones shifting in them and hoping they would not break. Her life and love had torn himself from her - it was a surprise she had held it together so well thus far.
Her brother was useless, she’d come to decide then. He had been of no help, no love had been held in his embrace when he’d tried to comfort her and repair her shattered heart with empty words. How painful it was to deal with lost love once more, it was as if a curse had been set upon her to ensure that love and happiness never fully was granted to her.
Her husband had vanished and died in a month’s time.
Her child had been murdered before its time.
Her new love abandoned her...
The pair walked the halls of the d'Eluise estate. The taller of the pair had their face in the book. The subject was of no importance as the smaller had no interest in it, yet she followed along. Nicolas hadn't cared much for the child, let alone her other siblings from the litter. As far as he was concerned Roselyne and Nicolette were the only niece he had. So he continued at his pace, face in book. Finally he stopped at a sofa in front of one of the estates many large windows, taking a seat. The small Vivienne, only four years of age at the time plopped up onto the seat beside him. The d'Eluise male looked down at the small child. Why did she insist on following him? The child smiled up at him, simply content with being in the estate...
Though the drizzle of rain washed away at the blood of lives lost and bodies dumped, the battlefield always seemed to remain the same - or so a once young man realised. Though having truly wandered to the front lines of seemingly constant conflict only months prior, there was a nostalgia to it. The sight of the dead, with their bloated bellies and bulging, belligerent, broken poses, caked in marshland mud; it was almost nostalgic, but not the sight.
No, it was instead the scent. The scent of death, of a cadaver having been freshly carved open. Be it by scalpel or sword, the scent was always the same.
Whispers of months past told of a certain man with exceptional skill and tactical insight traveling amongst the ready to die and...
Five years have passed since the newly named Carthas Norrvakt left the city. The man formerly known as Nicolas Delacroix had set out to train with the Ironwolf Legion in the School of Blackmark. He had been labeled a heretic by the Church of Unionism and therefore to redeem his soul must partake in every battle the Empire will wage until his death. Upon his leave the new Norrvakt had no knowledge if he would survive the training, but survive he did. Five years pass, skirmish after skirmish fighting tribes across the three Skags. Finally a letter makes its way from the North to Eadric Norrvakt, the adopted father.
Dear Eadric,
It has been quite some time my friend. With this letter reaching you I am sure you are pleased to find that I...
The last locks of Ithanian hair fall from his head. The latest member to the House Norrvakt takes the mirror from the barber, looking at his reflection. It had been quite some time since he was bald. Hopefully it won't become too scarred during the training. His head turns so that his tattoo faces the mirror. 'I Am the Servant of My Master's House.' A servant for but a moment, a child he has become. Now a member of the Master's House. Nicolas rises from his seat, paying the barber for his services and wishing him well. The Ithanian turns back into his room, sitting at his vanity. He draws his fingers over each of the several earrings adorning his ears. He will not be needing these for the next few years. Nicolas takes a deep breath, he...
The date was the eleventh day of the fourth month in the three hundred and fifth year. Nicolas Delacroix was alone in what appeared to be a semi empty warehouse in the Regalian harbor of the capital. Various crate and barrels spread scarcely across the space. The large wooden doors, partially decaying, shut closed with cracks of light peaking through. The Delacroix sat in a lone chair in the middle of the space, before her a crate with a glass jar atop it. The hustle and bustle of the every day operations of the harbor could be heard, but the inside of the warehouse was quiet. Finally the Delacroix interrupts the silence.
"Bonjour Nicolas, you appear to be looking well today."
The Delacroix stops as though waiting for a response...
The Bull and the Snake-eyed Songaskia.
In the summer of 289 A.C., the ocean was calm. As far as the eye could see there were gentle winds and equally gentle waves that lapped against the hull of the recently careened Girobaldan fregat, Pez Globo.
The crew was lazy. They’d been at sea for two weeks without seeing a single ship. It had become increasingly clear to the young Captain that the previously escaped merchant vessel made it to it’s destination without negative instance. The past Captain had allowed the crew to flee.
In the summer of 289 A.C., the ocean was calm, but there was a growing tenseness amongst the crew - and more importantly, the Captain.
The Captain: A young and ambitious twenty year old. He was built like a bull...
If Nicolas was a colour, he would be black. Void of all emotion, all feeling, a shell of a being. Black, the shade of nothing. Lacking of any light, like a shadow spreading wide across the baron plane known as life. Such is a life without meaning. Without purpose. Nicolas Delacroix. A shadow, without purpose.
The steward sat in his chair. Looking out into the empty room. The advisors have been fired. The bureaucrats have no reason to be there any longer. And there the eunuch sits, alone. The only company is a glass jar. The steward stares at the jar, foggy and expressionless. How can such a being even exist? Without purpose. Without care. A blackness so dark that it blots out any life. The steward rises from his seat, approaching the...
The clinic had grown silent except for the soft whimpering coming from one of the cots. The noise was muffled, but slowly the whimpering halted altogether as another noise took it's place, that noise being soft humming. Seraphina sat, holding her daughter’s smaller hand in both of hers. Her own fingers were laced together as she held the smaller woman’s hand.
Esther was finally asleep after much soothing and reassuring that the older Avanthar would not be going anywhere and would remain by her side for the rest of the night. Sadly it was a disturbed sleep as she thrashed and whimpered for many moments before curling up into a ball, clasping tightly to the hands of her mother.
That was nearly two hours ago, and only now had she...
Our story starts on a warm spring day, not a harsh burning hot day no, more like a gentle warm one. The kind of warm that makes you happy to be outside, a soft breeze blowing through to cool you down just enough but not give you chills. As the night grew close the children began heading home, all that is, except for one. Little Annelie Coiro, daughter to the Paladin Marcus Coiro, a gorgeous young half Shendar child sprinting through the streets of Regalia, chasing after lost kitten they had found.
In the distance one could hear a gruff voice bellowing out not far behind the child, their tone was distraught and panicked. At first, it was too quiet to hear, but as it neared closer the words were clear, and it was obvious who it was...
If Zzeno was a colour, he'd be fockin' orange. Why? Because he fockin' likes bleedin' orange you Fock and he has better things to do than talk to you blokes about colors. Like finding that Chi'enji for example, or furthering his plans for that heist... But tha's enough o' that, innit. E's also got a 'ole 'osta...whatchacallim?Hypotheticals ta worry about, what with escalatin'....Everythin'.Buh the mos' worryin' thing to tha' Tigran at this moment 'as ta be whetherer not th' next pocket 'e picks is gonna be 'is last. Bu' tha's nunna yer fockin business.So scram
__________________________________________________________________________
This is my first lore story, and a short one at that, but I feel it's fitting.Hope you Focks-I mean...
It was nearing midnight when a quiet knock echoed from the front door of the Vauclain estate. An aging maid bustled to the door and pulled it open with a small, “Yes?” only to be greeted by one of the few Vauclains that actually lived in the city estate. Juliette gave a tired, yet bright smile to the maid as she brought herself past her and into the foyer. Despite the fact that the servant would usually scold the young noble for being home so late, she’s lessened since the girl had joined the Regalian guard and made it a habit to come home late into the night occasionally. Juliette gave a slight bob of her head, as if thanking the woman before shuffling towards the stairs and bidding her a good night.
Upon reaching the top of the...
If Nathaniel was a colour, he would be green. Green with the feeling of illness that echoed through his gut as he stared upon a fresh grave. Swinging from the headstone was a crimson necklace, its hypnotising motion luring Nathaniel into a world of regret. Many thoughts crossed his mind; could he have helped? Was there any hope? As quick as a rain drop fell, the thoughts were gone, leaving Nathaniel nothing but an empty shell. Blue eyes, red with sadness, fixed upon the flowers surrounding him.
Lonely. How lonely it must be. New feelings spread through Nathaniel, feelings of guilt, anger but most surprisingly pity. Gazing upon the soil, Nathaniel's sight seemed to travel through it. Through the dirt, through the oak of the coffin lid...
Nicolas Delacroix would storm into the doorway of what was formerly the residence of Baird Norrvakt. The servant whom had summoned the Steward was standing off to the side, with a panicked look upon their face. They just stood there, looking at the Delacroix, who had rushed into the room, slamming wardrobes and drawers open, noticing the lack of anyone residing in the room still. He turned back to the door, furiously walking toward it. The servant on the other side almost fell over as he backed away. Finally the Delacroix was at the door and without a word slammed it shut. Now that he was alone in the room, Nicolas tore off his earrings, throwing them across the room. He stormed over to the wardrobe which stood in the corner...
(@HydraLana he made me I swear)
Baird walked around the space one last time, checking if there was anything else he wanted to take with him. Empty dresser, empty closet...he sighed as he vaguely glanced at the fancy desk. Would he need paper where he was going? No, not really, he never really wrote many letters anyway. He certainly wasn’t now, he knew that much. It would be too cold, too crisp, too Imperialistic.
He grabbed the sack and slung it over his shoulder, heading to walk out the door. He nearly tripped on the carpet as he did so, a vague smile playing on his face in this tense time. It was like it wanted him to stay but then again, it had done that so many other times, maybe it got bored without people nearby. He stopped...
If Juliette was a color, she would be Crimson. Crimson with the anger boiling in her blood as she stared at the necklace in her hand, a sigil of the Laines pressed into it. It had been Loic’s, her first love and first lost, someone who she regretted ever meeting now. Gideon’s hard and cruel words hammered against her skull like someone had jammed them in and was shaking her hard. She wished someone would shake her from this utter nightmare. Gideon had abused her at Blacktower. Bruised her with his words and screams that she wished she could force him to take back but she didn't have that power. She had power of determination, something that was leaking from her and making her cold with fear and weakness at that very moment. His words...
As Peggy entered the estate, she could feel an odd sense of tension that was foreign to her home. All that could be heard were the sounds of a shoe pressing into the ground. Peggy peered around the corner to see Amelia crushing flowers under her shoe.
"Amelia, are you alright?"
"N-nothing..."
Her older cousin stood to leave the lounge as she put a hand on Amelias shoulder. She felt Amelia rise and fall from her crying. Peggy knew how to comfort the gentle girl, but even after many tries, Amelia refused to explain, only saying,
"Ask the others upstairs."
Up the oak stairs, Peggy approached Marias room. Even with the doors held open, she felt as if she wouldn't be wanted. Peggy knocked on the door sill before entering and taking a...
Nicolas Delacroix sat in the Norrvakt estate. She had been entrusted to carry out the House's operations until her Lord Einarr returned. The Northerne artist was still hard at work, needle in hand, pressing it against the eunuch's temple. Ithanian hair lay scattered about the floor of the chamber. A series of advisors and overseers paired with bureaucrats all trying to speak louder than the other for a word with the Delacroix. The artist finishes his work and leans back, reaching for a mirror. The Delacroix sits upright in her seat, beckoning the crowd before her away, not saying a word. She would take care of these matters at a later time. The artist held up the mirror to allow for the Delacroix to inspect the finished work. 'I Am the...