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Additing a new source of easily obtained AC would have to also come with overhauls to the existing mobs. That's a hell of a lot of work to shift a relatively stable meta to a new neutral position.

Another tenday gone, another meaningless little report made. Empty words exchanged with hollow expressions. Again. The coin was good, at least - premium rates for doing a whole lot of nothing, but what good was it? Crow chafed in the city, smothered by its meaningless routines, choked by his supposed comrades. He'd always been restless even as a child, and often getting up to mischief. Yet while his fellows reveled in the same game for weeks, Crow was tired of them within days. Whatever he did, it could never quite satisfy some deep seated urge, and by the Gods did he try everything that came to mind. He was little more than a boy when he entered the black business and that, finally, got him close to a revelation. Leaving the village behind he spent years as a mercenary, then the years turned to decades, and at some point Crow managed to stop counting. At least a century, he reckoned, but who could say.

Slowly leaving the town behind, he curled a small smile at the forest ahead. A fine piece of work that had been, his finest yet, but already the glory was fading and the old itch starting to gnaw again. His mind turned to the boar he'd spotted the day before, thinking it might provide some decent sport when his keen eyes fell on something unexpected. Crow frowned to pick up a few strands of torn cloth, and after some careful searching, the barest hint of a footstep. They'd finally sent someone, and he was good. But Crow was better, of that he had no doubt as he silently unslung and readied his bow. His smile returned, a tooth wider than before.

[Clergy and Temples:]

Clergy and Temples: Clerics of the Dark Sun pledge to spread strife and work murder everywhere to make folk fear and believe in Cyric. They support rulers with a taste for cruelty and empire-building but indulge in intrigue in every land. They avoid plunging realms into widespread war, which would pay honor only to Tempus the war deity. At least, this is the ideal Cyricists pay lip service to. In truth, Cyricists spend most of their time scheming against one another, each striving to strengthen his or her personal power in an endless struggle of cabal against cabal. To make matters worse, during his madness Cyric spoke often to his faithful clergy, but not with one voice. As they all fear him, and each believes what he says is the One True Way, his words set Cyricist temples at cross purposes. His clerics are at one another's throats as often as they are promoting the defeat of other religions.

Cyric's temples are festering sores of evil that vary widely in appearance, reflecting the deity's chaotic nature. Many are hidden within caves or existing structures, including abandoned buildings, crumbling sewers, and forgotten dungeons, from which terrifying screams echo at irregular intervals. Many such complexes once served as temples of Bane, Bhaal, or Myrkul, and thus resemble the grim, foreboding keeps of the Black Lord, the hidden guildhalls of the Lord of Murder, or the tomblike vaults of the i Lord of Bones. All have in common a bloody sacrificial altar and a great hall where the local high cleric can rant to the assembled worshipers at irregular intervals.

When not disguising themselves to move in secret among the general populace, clerics of Cyric dress 'in black or dark purple robes trimmed with silver, with or without hoods. They wear silver bracers or bracelets (usually stamped with the skull-and-sunburst symbol of Cyric) to symbolize the church's enslavement to Cyric. Some clerics paint the symbol of their deity on their cheeks or foreheads on high holy days.

The Prince of Lies recognizes no single pontiff who rules over the entire faith, although a dozen or more powerful elerics believe that Cyric intends them to achieve such a role. Such conflicts stem from the time when the Dark Sun in his madness deliberately pitted his faithful against one another. Although the Prince of Lies has ceased doing so overtly, schisms within the faith have by no means healed, and the chaotic nature of his followers makes it unlikely they ever will. Clerics of Cyric dominate most factions, although powerful sorcerers, wizards, barbarians, fighters, rangers, and blackguards play important roles as well.

Currently the two most powerful factions are found in Amn. Watchful Skull Tynnos Argrim is high cleric of the Mountain of Skulls in the Cloud Peaks and founder of the devout order of assassins known as the Flames of the Dark Sun. He has consolidated his influence over the Dark Redoubt, a temple in the Tejarn Hills once led by a rival sect, and allied himself with the armies of Amn against the Sythillisian Empire. Blackwill Haarken Akhmelere, high cleric of the Twin Towers of the Eternal Eclipse, is working with the army of monsters led by two ogre magi from the city of Murann and now maintains a stranglehold over trade passing along the Trade Way..A third faction, growing in strength, wars with the clergy of Bane in Darkhold for control of the western branch of the Zhentarim. The leader of this faction is at present unknown. Some believe a charismatic cleric named Dag Zoreth has assumed the mantle of leadership, while others claim that a military commander known as the Pereghost commands the loyalty of the Dark Sun's faithful. In any event, it is this faction of Cyricists who are most likely to ignite an open holy war with the church of Bane.

Faiths & Pantheons, p. 20-21

Vanya watched the big man propping the wall by the entrance with his great bulk, his face set to a seemingly perpetual frown. His arms were crossed the way she might expect a bouncer's, but somehow she got the impression that they itched him to do something else with them. What, however, was a mystery. As far as she could tell, he had no interest in the working girls, or boys for that matter, barely acknowledging either with his attention unless directly addressed, something few ever dared to do. When she spied him eating it seemed a joyless affair, the workmanlike efficiency with which he chewed and swallowed his meals kept brief. Surprisingly so considering his bulk. Or perhaps because of it, Vanya reflected. Perhaps he tired long ago of the vast quantity of food ingested each day. He didn't touch spirits, or the dice table. He barely even slept from what she could tell as he was there by the door when she arrived in the mornings, and still there when she left in the evenings. The only times he seemed to come alive were the scant occasions which called on his expertise to break up fights or toss out drunken troublemakers. But even that didn't last long and soon he would resume his sullen post again.

Sometimes other men would show up, an elf with a cruel twist to his mouth she didn't care a bent copper for, and an old warrior who seemed a decent enough sort but weighed down by whatever past he carried, and they'd trade a few hushed words. It never seemed to Vanya like there was any great camaraderie there, no warm recollections of old colleagues or brothers in arms, no jokes shared or backs slapped. More than anything they each looked like they could hardly wait for the episode to be over so each of them could be on their way again.

They had been there today, for the first time in a couple tendays and judging by the stoop of the older man's shoulders as he departed, nothing much had changed. Gathering her courage, Vanya stepped forward. Today is the day, she told herself and cleared her throat to speak. Surely, today. Today, damn it! The big man glanced down and all her strength leaked away. A strangled croak was the only sound she made and quickly tried to disguise as another cough before it caught in her throat and made her eyes water. One of the other girls patted her on the back and ushered Vanya away, all the while the bouncer stared at them without so much as a blink. Perhaps tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.

The hulking figure stalked through the underbrush with speed and agility the belied its bulk. So it was true after all, what they say - fear grants flight. More figures followed close behind, huddling and quiet but for the occasional yelp of surprise as roots and branches would snag them in their haste. The leader kept going even when none were left to follow, out of the forest and into the farmland. He knew they didn't have the stones to flee from him, but somewhere in the depths of his soul, he wouldn't have blamed them either. The horrors they... He, had unleashed. It was almost enough to see him abandon everything and run with them. His pride had been great, and his lust greater still. He would be the strongest of any shaman, and damn his god if he didn't, or couldn't, make that happen. He'd find his own way, his own power, break it, chain it, and master it. He'd found an ally, one as cunning and ruthless and ambitious as he was. Only too late did he realise that had been a deadly underestimation.

The figure reached the outer fields and shed his great club. Cast aside his trinkets, his symbols of office and of power, and he prayed. He fell into supplication the likes of which he'd never known before. True, genuine, immutable terror drove him now, and only divine intervention might get him through it. So he danced, and he hollered, and he prayed in his garbled tongue that Hruggek might grant his blessing to this most worthless of his children.

CW: Meditations on grief, lack of purpose, and the inexorable march of time.

Theresa sat on her bed, a loose grip on her small hand mirror as she stared at it and the faintly smudged reflection that stared back at her with the face of a stranger. Who was this woman with her hair, grey and frayed? With her worry lines etched deep and irreversible into her skin, itself sagging in jowls? With her hollow and listless eyes? She did not recognise her. Had she really changed so much in the span of a year? It hardly seemed possible, yet there were her hands around the mirror. Those liver spots were no trick of the light, the wrinkling around her fingers no smudge of the glass. Theresa stared at those hands, not quite done withering yet but well on their way, and she felt sick. Her other things were packed, the papers were signed, the coin all accounted for... She should be happy. Just the other day she had met with the young woman who wanted to purchase her inheritance, to deliver her from the worries of the last year. She was so pretty, Theresa thought. The effortless ease of youth, even as she took her for all she was worth. For a moment, she had felt alive, she felt her old self roaring to life and she wanted to cheer, to brag, to kiss Veloth like it was the night of their wedding all over again... And then she remembered. Veloth was a year in the grave, and his dream had died with him. The house felt so terribly lonely, and Theresa herself finally realised she was hardly more than a wretched spectre roaming its halls, desperate for something. Anything. And now here it was, her chance. But a chance to do what? Who was she, without him? Her joints ached, not with age but with nervous excitement, vibrating as if they wanted to escape her body all at once. She wanted to scream. To sob. To dance or jump or drink. Anything but another moment of this. There was nothing but silence, and the hot tears that smudged her reflection.

Galard woke up with a jolt of pain in his bandaged arm. He grunted, twisting and turning in vain hopes of finding a position that at least began to resemble comfort. With a resentful sigh he finally conceded defeat and threw away the bed covers. A pause for breath. One, two, and sideways swung his legs over the rim of the bed, one at a time until he finally managed to land on the floor in a half-crouch. Despite the sling keeping his limb mostly immobile, the shock of it was enough to send another surge of stabbing pain up his forearm. Gritting his teeth, the young soldier paused to wait it out, slowly forcing out an even breath. Somehow, he found even this excruciating experience more bearable than the indignity he was subjected to all of last tenday as the medics fussed over him, and his father had assigned not one but two adjutants to assist his every step. He couldn't move, couldn't eat, couldn't so much as think of walking to the chamber pot without someone stepping in to all but do it for him. It drove Galard mad. The pain, the humiliation, the loss... His head was swimming well after the fever broke, and behind his closed eyelids he saw the damnable forest, dark leaves concealing volleys of crossbow bolts. The ringing of shouts wouldn't quit his ears day or night, and the death rattles that inevitably followed them were infinitely worse. Yet worst of all was the inaction. On some deep, rational level he understood his father's caution, but that was poor comfort to his raging heart. He dreamed of leading the charge, of rounding up each and every one responsible for the attack that killed his people. The soldiers on the ground, the officers who masterminded it, the rulers in their dark citadel, the very deity they pledged themselves to... Another unexpected stab of pulsating pain in his arm broke Galard from his ruminations and he cursed loudly. The door to his room creaked open and he whipped around, ready to yell and throw something, anything. But he stayed his hand when his squinting eyes spotted the conspicuous horns silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. The one person who seemed to understand his pain. The only one, it felt, in the whole damned world. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

All the best going forward, BH. Get that book published!

Classes are an IC thing to a degree, and while some concepts may share overlap (see: a Cleric of Silvanus, a High Forest Druid, and a Wood Elf Ranger), they are still distinct things both mechanically and in-universe. Note in the write up shown in OP that ranger guild halls will ally themselves with druid groves, but still keep their distinct practices. For another example of similar but distinct entities, Paladin orders and the larger clergy of their respective deities. While opening it up enough so that players may get involved to some degree (like the Starlight Grove, for example) is certainly a good thing, it's important to maintain and reinforce where possible the unique fantasy and niche of specific concepts, in this case Rangers. As one more example off the top of my head, membership in the Violet Flame requires that you have Wizard or Sorcerer levels, despite being called more generically a mage guild.

You can scribe scrolls for any spell your character knows though the higher level ones require ink that's found in dungeons, and certain ones require additional ingredients also found in dungeons. Wands can take spells up to innate caster level 6, amd potions go up to 5. Generally they're all quite useful though wands perhaps most of all between storing 50 charges and the very low exp cost. And yes, you can find the basic ingredients for all three sold in bulk in various shops.

[What:]

What: To commemorate the milestone of building a house and moving in together, Kara Marsk and Pelass Leafwind invite any and all friends to celebrate.
Who: Anyone who considers themselves a friend to either or both, and has the time to spare!
Where: Beyond the transition dead ahead of the first bend in the road on the West of Arabel map.
When: 3 Jan 25, 3pm est/8pm uk start to go as long as it goes. Countdown!

[Login:]

Login: probot
Discord ID: themirror3417
DM Name: DM Mirror

Timezone: UK-based (UTC/BST) i.e. EST+5
Availability: Afternoons and evenings my time, more often than not.

Preferred Number of Players: 4-6
Preferred Length of Quest: 2-3 hours per session. I like the idea of ad-hocs cohering into a larger storyline.

Thematic Styles and Specialties:
I love magic. If you want to do interesting magical things, you have my attention.
I love it when my players take initiative and try to keep my prompting to a minimum.
I'm a big fan of moral conundrums and characters having their convictions tested.
Politics and politicking. I adore good social play and if you bring me doublespeak, you're taking home bonus exp. 
The latest piece of media I enjoyed. This is not a joke.

Wishes to Avoid:
Tag-alongs. Please only sign up for my events if you see something which appeals to you outside of the exp reward at the end.
In the moment arguments. I will make mistakes, and calls you disagree with. Please save it for after the event is over.
Intra-party antagonism. Conflict and disagreements are fine so long as they actually resolve into something actionable.
The Deep Lore (tm). I'm not a Realms lore buff by any stretch of the imagination, I make up for it with frantic googling. It's not that I don't enjoy it, or won't prepare in advance if forewarned, but please be gentle with springing on me someone's great aunt thrice removed who is actually mega relevant right now.

Queue and Wishlist:
I'm perusing the quest requests and fleshing out a few ideas, one about a wizard and a tower, another about a high ranking military officer, and yet another about a region under siege.

Misc. Notes:
While I have many years of roleplay and DMing behind my back, I'm extremely new to the NWN DM and Build clients. Your patience is greatly appreciated.
The usual - party chat, /touchon, /diceprivate. Hold on transitions for descriptions. Always ask ahead of time if you want to prepare non-NWN spells. Always ask before flying/teleporting to a place.
Always indicate what you're rolling for if unprompted, either in private or preferrably through your emote.
I'm open for suggestions and discussions on just about anything and everything, preferably over discord.

10.A - IC Slavery

As something of a specific corollary to these rules, please note that in-character enslavement or slave status of PCs does fall under mature content rules and the secret associations rules to a degree, because it is similar to torture/etc in that it's the sort of thing that forces players to react to it. In particular, this sort of thing is ICly illegal in Cormyr, and in most of the Dales as well, so it should not be brought up/must be kept quiet in those areas. Also, due to the implications inherent in such an event/story, existing characters cannot be made into slaves, even with OOC agreement, because this forces such an event on any number of other characters. As such, IC Slavery is limited to characters explicitly made for that purpose. If someone no longer wishes to play their formerly enslaved character, this requires retirement of that character, lest it provoke a giant PVP/drama situation that many unwilling players will inevitably get pulled into.

Please note that under 10.A, this is specifically limiting PC and PC interaction. A character may still have a background in slavery, and speak of it in general terms (Not explicit details), as long as the antagonist is an NPC. As said in the above rule - and that about backstories, trying to gather dislike or hatred towards a specific PC isn't kosher.

Emphasis mine. I've not heard of a rules change saying otherwise.

Making it a different color will help you determine what is what at a glance. I use the whisper chat in a crowded environment sometimes for precisely this reason - to see exactly what those around me are saying when things get busy. OOC chat being the same text as regular say and whispers is more of a burden, to me at least, because I have to look at it, especially when it's multiple people talking and it mixes in with IC text, which is not uncommon. Like I said above, it's not much, but it's definitely a quality of life improvement.

Grey is default for whispers so that would likely lead to at least some minor confusion down the line which is better avoided. Cyan I think would stand out too much unless it's quite a faded, pastel shade, which I think is the overall answer here. Personally I envision some light pink color but anything that straddles the line of soft enough to blend in without losing readability would suffice.