@Mellow_MC please edit your comet via the gear icon on your old entries. It is better than posting multiple times because it floods the chat. Cheers and good-luck with your submission.
That seems to be a mythic rare, and also better than Terror of the Peaks, which is on the strong side of mythics. I'd say it's on the edge of playability, being a little OP.
EDIT: (Also @Robo_Kitty, @LHunter, @LvB if you are still interested in a ToC7 tournament, this is the official one.)
The war that had raged on in the north had long died out into petty fueds since the great equalizer. The Dormanians having long lost the their star in their hands due to the great dining, had been dispirited from attacking; the stone of the moon in Monastir once held by the Shambakinm, no longer potent without its counterpart the stone of the sun; and the stone of the sun, once in the abandoned capital of Solastir, now fragmented and shattered into mists and whispers. Without the sun-stone’s power in the wrong hands, a time of peace followed for a time and a period, until the protectors of old passed and the great plague began to spread. The Asulamani, the Dormanian, and the Zumbala in the face of this were reduced to petty squabbles in the face of this new looming threat.
(The Crumbling Tomb)
Where once in an ancient tomb stood a huge throne of bones. A dead king’s bones long turned to dust, the stone that once screamed with souls of the damned claimed by a damned soul stuck between the living and the dead just like the king he claimed it from. The king no longer rests, his tomb in Mamelukur, his bleached bones joined with the sands and the winds. Long passed to whatever afterlife befitting of the life they led. As for the one who claimed the stone of the spirit, not much is known about them, but what is known for sure is that the stone no longer holds its power.
(The Blighted Desert)
The vast desert of Al’Solahan, once peaceful, now plagued with greying sands. Where once violence was what made her such an effective killer, now a blight pervades the lands crippling it and pushing the ones caught further into conflict with their neighbours who are easier to contend with than the blight. Once harboring scorching rays her embrace is now cold, purplish grey, overcast, and full of perpetual twilight in the blighted areas. None can travel through her in safety anymore for few areas are safe within her. She is no longer a cradle, now known by her blighted informal name of Al’Lunhan. There is no comfort in her domain, and fewer places remain for those who once called this "home".
Where once the desert played with her visitors through illusions, and mirages of oasises. Where once she gifted them with clean water so they could quench their thirst. Her power was long stolen by a mighty beast capable of flight. The surface where the stone of illusions was once cradled, now empty like a broken heart. The fate of this beast no longer known, but the might of the stone surely dimmed or dimming.
(The Silent Mountains)
The white Abadaya Mountains of these lands, ancient as the dust that falls from them. Made millions of years ago thousands of feet beneath the ground where the sand meets the bedrock. Slowly through the years the stone made from molten sand rose up above ground where it was turned to sand and dust by the polishing wind and eroding weather. Among the mountains, one once stood out, but the fires of its belly have long been dimmed. Once a bleeding wound, the white sandstone now lays polished, cracked, and cold.
At the bottom of one of the scars is an opening into the mountain with rails that once led to a camp in the valley, but have long seen abandon. The mine long abandoned has become home to the creatures of the wild and been reclaimed by the elements. The light of torches that once burned bright long gone to sleep. Wagons lie in great abandon, some long turned to mulch and wooden rot.
Deep inside the mine a silence keener than death exists. The stone that once burned hot within these chambers stolen in a time of old. A stone that changed hands so many times that neither the nature of the one/s who have it is known. However one thing is known for sure, the stone no longer holds its power.
(Once the Beauty and Once the Beast)
Once upon a time, before the birth of any relative to any of the elders of today had been born. There was a magnificent kingdom at the helm of a great river. Within that kingdom lived a young princess of unrivaled beauty and favour among even her subjects. Then one day, a ferocious beast attacked the kingdom. A beast so terrifying that it struck fear into all in its presence. The monster brought ruin and destruction to city after city, its maw threatening to even bite a chunk out of the great capital.
The priestesses of the capital decided that, in order to protect the princess and to keep the warriors from losing heart, the princess would be turned into a bird so she could seek refuge at the divine peak of a tall mountain. The priestesses gave the princess a necklace with a white crystal stone inside a medallion, the stone of the sky. Then as they began chanting a spell, the gemstone glowed and slowly the princess transformed into a white shrike. She took to the mountains as the monster came closer.
The battle was one of attrition, many lives were lost, but after days and nights of battle the beast was felled. The city had been brought to ruin but the citizens held hope for their princess was still alive.
Dawns came and passed but the princess did not return. The priestesses decided, with the help of some noble warriors, to ascend the peaks where the princess had set off a week before. At the peak they found the princess sitting on the branch of an old lonely tree. No matter how much they tried, the priestesses could not undo the transformation.
Slowly over the passing days and weeks, the priestesses and warriors lost heart, giving up and descending the mountains. After a while there were only two left - the most renowned of the warriors and the elder priestess herself. The priestess saw no end where the princess could be turned back, so she gave her hope to destiny itself. The warrior however, a stoic, would not leave the princess and forsake his duty. So he made a deal with the priestess. She turned the warrior into a mighty hawk, destined to protect the princess until time comes. Then she departed from the mountains.
Two hundred years came and passed, and now undoubtedly half a millenia - and the kingdom and its princess would turn into stories of old and legend. Eventually the stone itself befell the hands of a mighty bard or perhaps a poet of sorts, but while not much is known about them, the fate of the stone is known very well as with the fate of the other stars that fell from the sky.
Beyond the eastern coast lies a lonely island once incorrecetely painted on map, it is now un-obscured by the mists. Where once it was blanketed by mists, legends say that a monk stole the fire from the flame that stoked its mists. While the island still lies far out of the range of practicality, ships and commerce have begun to take root in the lonely island.
The forests and paths no longer change and twist; and the animals, no longer rare and unfamiliar - for since that day that that monk who would go on to be a champion of the continent till his death took the stone of the mists, the island has become a tropical haven of sorts. Now the champion is long dead, and the stone having long lost its powers remains unfound.
(The Coals of War, The Burn of Dread)
War
War, once a devouring beast whose engines ravaged the continent for centuries till the years of peace, hungerd for land, pursed for gold and shattered faiths. It devoured the lives of men, it devoured their lands, their yields, their souls - feeding upon knowledge and culture with its cutleries of gun-powder, steel, and machine.
It was foolishness and folly that started the war and it was that same foolishness and folly that ended it. The time came and a peace of sorts existed for 275 years. The people somewhat tasted the winds of peace during the great rebuilding. While there were those who started petty disputes, for those few years at least in Asolamun global conflicts were put to rest. But as with all peace it must all come to the end eventually.
Now the furnaces of the city of Kazhar don’t burn as bright as they did with their forge stone long stolen by an automaton of mighty steel, but they now burn with the fires of coal and slowed progress. From the chimneys that once fed the smokes of war, now burn fires that seek to ward the pervasive chill that looms within the atmosphere, taut with tension. In place of blue, shines orange; and Instead of men stacking tools of war, factotums of metal pack the tools of progress. The forge stone’s whereabouts are just as unknown as the whereabouts of the one who took them, but one thing is for sure. If it does exist, then it has long dimmed.
(The Lost Serpent)
From village to village once traveled a man. He carried nothing but his white cloak decorated in symbols of the white and the black cobras, and on his finger enthroned a ring with a green stone (the stone of snakes). His hands were of a healer but where they touched only followed death.
The ones he touched were not always guilty, but to call them saints was far a stretch. He did not take at all, but all he did was offer peace. He was not a noble man, but neither are the lands he once wandered. The irony is, the same fate he offered others was the fate that befell him. A magician fell the man, and his soul exiled from the realm as he was from the temples he once was from. His oaths and piety turned to dust. A warrior whose path can no longer be retraced. For six hundred years he wandered now after his death, the sands he wandered have begun to rot. As for the stone, its whereabouts are unknown, but what is known is that its power has long diminished.
(The Songs of Madness gone Silent)
Music has Always been an important part of life in this land - and to this day it still is. Music has been just to connect with the gods and the spirits of the dead but also the world and the will of the mother goddess herself. Music is used to celebrate, encourage, and even endure tough times.
Lives to this day are still dedicated to the art of music and song. But with the stealing and dimming of the stone of song and beauty, long gone are the days that they are known for music. The opera houses once closed have been re-opened, the fears of old quenched. But make no mistake, music is still explored with caution in Luena.
The house once barricaded has now re-opened. Sits once unoccupied now occupied as a distraction from what goes on in the realms. Everyone of them cheer, laugh, and drink - but as they leave, the sorrows of the world claim them. Once slaves to the golden witch of song, a curse was lifted from them by the unfortunate soul to claim the stone from her, to many the hero was an angel, to others a fool. No one knows where this noble warrior went, but what is known for sure is that the stone of song, wherever it is, has dimmed.
After thinking for a bit I have decided to make a new champion. All posts regarding my former champion in terms of cards and backstory have been deleted, I will post a new one soon.
I've just had a lot of crap around the forums going on and haven't found the time to repost my character, thats my bad, I'll post it today if possible. Sry, and ill try to get people to join from the other RPGs.
Has anyone been recruiting form the Discord? As far as I can tell there's no way to get from the main site to here anymore, so newcomers to MTGCS won't know this exists.
Yeah I've noticed there's literally 5 active users and the most active are Myself, LvB, jpastor, cadstar369, and FireOfGolden. Apart from that there's not really anyone else.
Height: 27 ft. Length: 45 ft. Wingspan: 50 ft. Age: 27 years. Backstory: The thriving village of Verillium was a bustling place. Despite living in the shadow of the ever looming Dreadmount, the people of the village were ever joyful, as the Dreadmount had not erupted in 500 years, so what danger was there?
In the year 900 C.E, The Dreadmount erupted, spilling lava and magma across the village, decimating its population. And those that were left fell prey to a fell beast. Vandrik, the Child of the Dreadmount's Womb. As a wyrmling, Vandrik was already large for his age, the size of a small building, devouring every corpse and person in his path. Nothing was safe.
That day, 5 villages burned in the wake of the eruption, and 10 more fell pray to Vandrik's predation. But from that moment onwards, he was known as a sign of the G-d's displeasure with the world.
As Vandrik grew, so did his reputation, and countless parties have adventured in order to slay him, but none have prevailed. And now, Vandrik crawls from his cave, and begins his journey. Back to the Dreadmount, to gain more strength, and devour the world itself.
MTG Cardsmith Community Forums
Comments
EDIT: (Also @Robo_Kitty, @LHunter, @LvB if you are still interested in a ToC7 tournament, this is the official one.)
The war that had raged on in the north had long died out into petty fueds since the great equalizer. The Dormanians having long lost the their star in their hands due to the great dining, had been dispirited from attacking; the stone of the moon in Monastir once held by the Shambakinm, no longer potent without its counterpart the stone of the sun; and the stone of the sun, once in the abandoned capital of Solastir, now fragmented and shattered into mists and whispers. Without the sun-stone’s power in the wrong hands, a time of peace followed for a time and a period, until the protectors of old passed and the great plague began to spread. The Asulamani, the Dormanian, and the Zumbala in the face of this were reduced to petty squabbles in the face of this new looming threat.
(The Crumbling Tomb)
Where once in an ancient tomb stood a huge throne of bones. A dead king’s bones long turned to dust, the stone that once screamed with souls of the damned claimed by a damned soul stuck between the living and the dead just like the king he claimed it from. The king no longer rests, his tomb in Mamelukur, his bleached bones joined with the sands and the winds. Long passed to whatever afterlife befitting of the life they led. As for the one who claimed the stone of the spirit, not much is known about them, but what is known for sure is that the stone no longer holds its power.
(The Blighted Desert)
The vast desert of Al’Solahan, once peaceful, now plagued with greying sands. Where once violence was what made her such an effective killer, now a blight pervades the lands crippling it and pushing the ones caught further into conflict with their neighbours who are easier to contend with than the blight. Once harboring scorching rays her embrace is now cold, purplish grey, overcast, and full of perpetual twilight in the blighted areas. None can travel through her in safety anymore for few areas are safe within her. She is no longer a cradle, now known by her blighted informal name of Al’Lunhan. There is no comfort in her domain, and fewer places remain for those who once called this "home".
Where once the desert played with her visitors through illusions, and mirages of oasises. Where once she gifted them with clean water so they could quench their thirst. Her power was long stolen by a mighty beast capable of flight. The surface where the stone of illusions was once cradled, now empty like a broken heart. The fate of this beast no longer known, but the might of the stone surely dimmed or dimming.
(The Silent Mountains)
The white Abadaya Mountains of these lands, ancient as the dust that falls from them. Made millions of years ago thousands of feet beneath the ground where the sand meets the bedrock. Slowly through the years the stone made from molten sand rose up above ground where it was turned to sand and dust by the polishing wind and eroding weather. Among the mountains, one once stood out, but the fires of its belly have long been dimmed. Once a bleeding wound, the white sandstone now lays polished, cracked, and cold.
At the bottom of one of the scars is an opening into the mountain with rails that once led to a camp in the valley, but have long seen abandon. The mine long abandoned has become home to the creatures of the wild and been reclaimed by the elements. The light of torches that once burned bright long gone to sleep. Wagons lie in great abandon, some long turned to mulch and wooden rot.
Deep inside the mine a silence keener than death exists. The stone that once burned hot within these chambers stolen in a time of old. A stone that changed hands so many times that neither the nature of the one/s who have it is known. However one thing is known for sure, the stone no longer holds its power.
(Once the Beauty and Once the Beast)
Once upon a time, before the birth of any relative to any of the elders of today had been born. There was a magnificent kingdom at the helm of a great river. Within that kingdom lived a young princess of unrivaled beauty and favour among even her subjects. Then one day, a ferocious beast attacked the kingdom. A beast so terrifying that it struck fear into all in its presence. The monster brought ruin and destruction to city after city, its maw threatening to even bite a chunk out of the great capital.
The priestesses of the capital decided that, in order to protect the princess and to keep the warriors from losing heart, the princess would be turned into a bird so she could seek refuge at the divine peak of a tall mountain. The priestesses gave the princess a necklace with a white crystal stone inside a medallion, the stone of the sky. Then as they began chanting a spell, the gemstone glowed and slowly the princess transformed into a white shrike. She took to the mountains as the monster came closer.
The battle was one of attrition, many lives were lost, but after days and nights of battle the beast was felled. The city had been brought to ruin but the citizens held hope for their princess was still alive.
Dawns came and passed but the princess did not return. The priestesses decided, with the help of some noble warriors, to ascend the peaks where the princess had set off a week before. At the peak they found the princess sitting on the branch of an old lonely tree. No matter how much they tried, the priestesses could not undo the transformation.
Slowly over the passing days and weeks, the priestesses and warriors lost heart, giving up and descending the mountains. After a while there were only two left - the most renowned of the warriors and the elder priestess herself. The priestess saw no end where the princess could be turned back, so she gave her hope to destiny itself. The warrior however, a stoic, would not leave the princess and forsake his duty. So he made a deal with the priestess. She turned the warrior into a mighty hawk, destined to protect the princess until time comes. Then she departed from the mountains.
Two hundred years came and passed, and now undoubtedly half a millenia - and the kingdom and its princess would turn into stories of old and legend. Eventually the stone itself befell the hands of a mighty bard or perhaps a poet of sorts, but while not much is known about them, the fate of the stone is known very well as with the fate of the other stars that fell from the sky.
(The Isolated Haven)
Beyond the eastern coast lies a lonely island once incorrecetely painted on map, it is now un-obscured by the mists. Where once it was blanketed by mists, legends say that a monk stole the fire from the flame that stoked its mists. While the island still lies far out of the range of practicality, ships and commerce have begun to take root in the lonely island.
The forests and paths no longer change and twist; and the animals, no longer rare and unfamiliar - for since that day that that monk who would go on to be a champion of the continent till his death took the stone of the mists, the island has become a tropical haven of sorts. Now the champion is long dead, and the stone having long lost its powers remains unfound.
(The Coals of War, The Burn of Dread)
War
War, once a devouring beast whose engines ravaged the continent for centuries till the years of peace, hungerd for land, pursed for gold and shattered faiths. It devoured the lives of men, it devoured their lands, their yields, their souls - feeding upon knowledge and culture with its cutleries of gun-powder, steel, and machine.
It was foolishness and folly that started the war and it was that same foolishness and folly that ended it. The time came and a peace of sorts existed for 275 years. The people somewhat tasted the winds of peace during the great rebuilding. While there were those who started petty disputes, for those few years at least in Asolamun global conflicts were put to rest. But as with all peace it must all come to the end eventually.
Now the furnaces of the city of Kazhar don’t burn as bright as they did with their forge stone long stolen by an automaton of mighty steel, but they now burn with the fires of coal and slowed progress. From the chimneys that once fed the smokes of war, now burn fires that seek to ward the pervasive chill that looms within the atmosphere, taut with tension. In place of blue, shines orange; and Instead of men stacking tools of war, factotums of metal pack the tools of progress. The forge stone’s whereabouts are just as unknown as the whereabouts of the one who took them, but one thing is for sure. If it does exist, then it has long dimmed.
(The Lost Serpent)
From village to village once traveled a man. He carried nothing but his white cloak decorated in symbols of the white and the black cobras, and on his finger enthroned a ring with a green stone (the stone of snakes). His hands were of a healer but where they touched only followed death.
The ones he touched were not always guilty, but to call them saints was far a stretch. He did not take at all, but all he did was offer peace. He was not a noble man, but neither are the lands he once wandered. The irony is, the same fate he offered others was the fate that befell him. A magician fell the man, and his soul exiled from the realm as he was from the temples he once was from. His oaths and piety turned to dust. A warrior whose path can no longer be retraced. For six hundred years he wandered now after his death, the sands he wandered have begun to rot. As for the stone, its whereabouts are unknown, but what is known is that its power has long diminished.
(The Songs of Madness gone Silent)
Music has Always been an important part of life in this land - and to this day it still is. Music has been just to connect with the gods and the spirits of the dead but also the world and the will of the mother goddess herself. Music is used to celebrate, encourage, and even endure tough times.
Lives to this day are still dedicated to the art of music and song. But with the stealing and dimming of the stone of song and beauty, long gone are the days that they are known for music. The opera houses once closed have been re-opened, the fears of old quenched. But make no mistake, music is still explored with caution in Luena.
The house once barricaded has now re-opened. Sits once unoccupied now occupied as a distraction from what goes on in the realms. Everyone of them cheer, laugh, and drink - but as they leave, the sorrows of the world claim them. Once slaves to the golden witch of song, a curse was lifted from them by the unfortunate soul to claim the stone from her, to many the hero was an angel, to others a fool. No one knows where this noble warrior went, but what is known for sure is that the stone of song, wherever it is, has dimmed.
Kraig revised:
After that, I will close down the chat & just not host
Yeah I've noticed there's literally 5 active users and the most active are Myself, LvB, jpastor, cadstar369, and FireOfGolden. Apart from that there's not really anyone else.
Vandrik's Stats:
Height: 27 ft.Length: 45 ft.
Wingspan: 50 ft.
Age: 27 years.
Backstory:
The thriving village of Verillium was a bustling place. Despite living in the shadow of the ever looming Dreadmount, the people of the village were ever joyful, as the Dreadmount had not erupted in 500 years, so what danger was there?
In the year 900 C.E, The Dreadmount erupted, spilling lava and magma across the village, decimating its population. And those that were left fell prey to a fell beast. Vandrik, the Child of the Dreadmount's Womb. As a wyrmling, Vandrik was already large for his age, the size of a small building, devouring every corpse and person in his path. Nothing was safe.
That day, 5 villages burned in the wake of the eruption, and 10 more fell pray to Vandrik's predation. But from that moment onwards, he was known as a sign of the G-d's displeasure with the world.
As Vandrik grew, so did his reputation, and countless parties have adventured in order to slay him, but none have prevailed. And now, Vandrik crawls from his cave, and begins his journey. Back to the Dreadmount, to gain more strength, and devour the world itself.