Lazarus

You can recruit one species of it in Golemus Golemicarum using a Charm, if you have it. One is available somewhere in the MD Shop, one Christmas species can only be had via trade as far as I know, and one requires a Wishpoint to transform into something that is very rare and powerful.

MagicDuel is not like any other game. Its mechanics is different than the rest of browser/MMORPG games that are available and this is what makes it unique. While other games makes winning a destination, MD makes it more of a journey and an experience.

As a non-A25 realm-shaper myself, I usually work in tandem with various A25 realm-shapers when it comes to scene, clickables and creature artwork implementations. If you want to submit a concept art or are interested in being involved, you can show off your PoC/demo via the forum gallery, the MD Artworks subforum, or by talking directly with one of the GM's/A25 members. For avatars, typically you just upload them to the profile section of the game located on the left hand corner of the page. The artwork needs to meet certain specifications, you can find it HERE.

Like what Miq said. Other ways involve going to a certain place with other players and simultaneously activating a portal, and having a pebble to teleport oneself to the island.

I would say that the craziest spells in MD are the inner magic ones. Although these are not implemented yet as it is still in the game border, when you read what actually goes into creating one, it could transform the game itself. There is a lot of work involved in casting these spells. According to the documentation, you literally can do anything you wish for. It consumes a Wish Point and Principle values to cast. The requirements are inner magic documents (the first few levels), the description of the spell, and the how the spell would consume the provided Principle values. Taken directly from the inner magic documentation page: If this is not crazy enough, then I don't know what is. It's one of my long time wish to have this feature realized.

Use the ghost spell, if you have it. Otherwise, keep a keen eye and get a lot of AP so you can run like Forrest Gump.

The quickest way is to fight someone using lifestealers and Priests/Popes.

If you're talking about Heat as in Heat scars, you can do this by merely fighting. You can gain more usable heat by increasing your briskness, sacrificing a creature, fighting, walking around (if briskness value is high enough), or releasing stored heat from your Erolin device (heat container).

The only way that I know of is by sacrificing your creatures to various Altars scattered throughout MD. Of course, the value of the principles that can be had is dependent on several factors about the creature you want to sacrifice such as age, level, win counts and whether or not they have tokens on them.

There are a lot of ways on how you can get extra Action Points (AP); by clicking Free Credits link to vote on, consuming Spicy Pickles, loading a tool called "AP Boots" that can be found on specific scenes, but for increasing Max AP, you will have to keep logging in everyday, or to go to MD shop and buy an item called "Kinetic Memory." Alternatively, you can also find it in the Wish Shop if you have a Wish Point and you feel like this is worth spending it on.

There are 2 different types of spells; Inner and Outer. The ones that you saw being cast are Outer spells and there are ways to get this; either you spend Wishpoints on it (which can be had by successfully completing quests that rewards it) on the Wish Shop, by using enchanted Stones that contain spells, or by using an Item that can cast it, such as Give Vital from MP6 Protectors (another topic).

Honor can be gained by attacking a player that has positive amounts of it. The value given by other players depends hugely on your fight balance; the more imbalanced you are, the more it leans towards positive or negative. If your honor dips below a certain threshold, you will not be able to attack another player, so watch your honor level specially if it gets too low. Also, if you attack a player with negative amounts of it, well, you'll lose your honor based on the exact amount that player gives you.

MD Festivals varies from time to time. There are Christmas festivals, Halloween, MD Birthdays etc. These festivities often comes with a lot of quests, challenges and surprise activities that can either be benefited from, suffer from, or worse, like Ledah, die from.

For starters, you can gain loyalty based on your login activities. You can also gain loyalties through Alliance fights and if you are of a higher Mindpower levels, you can set your character to Worship an MP6 and offer heat to them in exchange of loyalty points.

There are a lot of ways to resurrect someone in-game, though I will not spoil any of the details here, there are players who has items that can perform resurrection, there are resources that lets you create your own, it can also be available as a reward from various quests, and lastly, there is also divine intervention, but this happens very rarely. Several years ago we had an RPC whose role is solely to resurrect fallen characters, but the condition is that a player has to defeat its two guards from battles, but times have changed and the answers provided are the only ways so far.

It depends on what type of harassment the player is doing. If it's by verbal harassment/bothering, you can just simply mute this player on chat, block him from sending you messages both in forum and in-game. For more severe types of harassment, you can report it to game masters and admin with the necessary details and they will take the necessary actions.

The DNA signature was something experimental that was implemented to give account identity to a player. It could be gained through the now-defunct original story mode by choosing answers you feel to questions the first few days of creating an account upon logging in.

The blue chat text signifies that you are roleplaying your character. You can do this by enclosing the message in asterisks. Eg: *is lazy* will output Lazarus is lazy - in blue color The gray text is used for out-of-character conversations or off-topic ones. This can be done by enclosing the chat message in parenthesis. Eg: (I woke up this morning with my hair gone) - in gray color. Alternatively, you can click the check box on the bottom of the chat that says "OOC Chat [?]" so you don't have to type the open and close parenthesis everytime.

Click the pull-up panel below the page, click the gear button on the right of the panel, enter your new email on the space provided, click change. Check your email for verification link and click it. You will then be redirected to the game.

Will the entries be publicized?

Thank you, Fang. Perhaps you should also share with us what the void means to you and why.

I SAID SPOILERS AND CHEWETT HAS EDITED THE POST Lol whoops

I'm buying the "aww s**t" level. Please send me a forum PM if you have no use for them and are willing to sell. Or donate them to me for scientific research.

The classic understanding of the void have always been the representation of nothingness, emptiness, zero, void, and this is often associated with darkness. Since personal perspective is being asked of, I will define it based on my subjective experience of the concept of the void. The void is not darkness, emptiness, nothingness or any other similar concept people often associate it with, for one to recognize that it is empty or dark is to recognize that no-thing is making it evident, it acts as a container of the existence of the perceived "nothingness." This is very difficult to explain with just words since it is bordering on both philosophy and metaphysics, so I'm going to give an oversimplified example that may or may not be alien to most people: In Dzogchen teaching, there is a concept of groundness, a pristine awareness known as "Rigpa" - which is of no origin and primordially existent, the purest most fundamental form of consciousness. It transcends the boundaries of the mind and the perceived sense of self. It encapsulates everything in our own subjective experiences generated by our own senses. When our stream of consciousness stops for a brief moment, we are present and we truly become free, we call this our "flow state" where there is nothing else in our minds but the present moment, which gives birth to creativity and new ideas. While this only last from milliseconds to a few seconds, it's significant enough to make a difference. The mind rests on the consciousness and consciousness is recognized by the Rigpa. The Big Bang theory says the same thing about the void. Billions of years of chain reaction from no-thing guided by a deterministic universe have lead us to where we are now. Everything that we see, hear, care about, our history - all are offsprings of this concept. Emptiness, darkness, nothingness - sits on the very same ground and is contained in the void. The void itself is both the substrate (containment) and the observer (Rigpa). The void can contain nothing and something simultaneously. It can create and destroy things that can arise from its nothingness, for the void is of no origin and we humans are its creations.

I want to share with you an intriguing short story that somehow plucked on my moral strings, presenting both moral dilemma and a possible misplacement of our empathies. I have my own opinions on this story which I will share, but I would like to hear yours first if you care to share them. * * * The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas From The Wind's Twelve Quarters: Short Stories by Ursula Le Guin With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows' crossing flights, over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green' Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mudstained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells. Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas? They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children – though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however – that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc. -- they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains,. washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that: it doesn't matter. As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers' Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, don't hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas – at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were no drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond all belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world's summer; this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really don't think many of them need to take drooz. Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men, wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune. He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute. As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses' necks and soothe them, whispering, "Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope. . . ." They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun. Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing. In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits haunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes-the child has no understanding of time or interval – sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother's voice, sometimes speaks. "I will be good," it says. "Please let me out. I will be good!" They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, "eh-haa, eh-haa," and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually. They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable misery. This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed. The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child. Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there snivelling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer. Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible. At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.