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 Mar'arr'nenkeshet Mar'arr'nenkeshet twitched in what might have been excitement, or perhaps rumination. Maybe even worry. It was hard to tell with a being such as it, where emotions and thoughts were in a state of constant flux. Nevertheless, it answered at least to those that made no effort to hide themselves. To Zarkai posted:The first Seeds with the Secret of Words and Thought that I sung to called me Mar'arr'nenkeshet so such may you call me also strange Seed. I have come here through the Membranes of the Sky to teach the Truth of Life to Seeds so that all may know the way of things. To Maen posted:What are such names and notes strange Seed they are not known to us. I have come through the Membranes of the Sky to sing my Song so that all Seeds may know of the Truth of Life.
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Apr 4, 2016 15:27
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 Maen Mother of Madness, Patroness of Artists, Queen of Love, the Moon's Prisoner. Maen sang back, though how much of her mind was aware of who or what she was talking about was up for debate. To Mar'arr'nenkeshet posted:Sing? I sung. I sung to my father and I taught humans to sing. Do they still sing? They were so angry when I taught them to sing but it was so beautiful! I hear them now, but it's just echoes, it's not them. So heartless to leave me with echoes and figments!
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Apr 4, 2016 17:32
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  After the fire of Haven died down… Shun, the heretic, walked across the burned out husk of the city, searching for any hidden signs or symbols that might give him some lead on a power, or secret, that could give him the means to see something done about the Divine that had forsaken his home, his family, and his entire people. There was something that caught his eye, stained black against a stone, a sigil not unlike those practiced by the rabban, but quite unlike anything he had seen before. Naturally drawn to be able to ferret out this hidden truth, he followed the signs, conversed with the people, and tracked it down to a single hostel that rested at the edge of the town, which had already begun the process of rebuilding, yet this burned out husk of a building was completely burned out. The door had been painted but that had peeled away, revealing the faint imprint underneath the coat of ash of that same sigil, and the door nearly collapsed from the threshold when Shun stepped forward. It seemed like any of the other hostels that cared for travelers here in Haven, a source for copper coin for those who had the space and could offer cheap lodging to either refugees or travelers who were making the long trip through the badlands, or down the coast to the archipelago. There were cots, but it appears that most had escaped. There was nothing of interest to be found. In fact, this was somewhat suspicious in itself. It had been nearly picked clean, and not by thieves, but apparently the owners, personal belongings completely bereft or any sign of who used to live there. There was nothing of interest, and the trail seemed to stop here, cold in its tracks. But there was something oppressive, goading Shun to dig deeper. And dig he did, getting to his hands and scraping at the still warm ashes and dirt at the ground, feeling almost compelled to see what was buried beneath so much, and he was rewarded for this by a single, red square of stained wood. With a candle lit hastily brought to this secreted rap door, he lifted it, and descended inside. It was a low ceilinged basement, but that is not what struck him. Every inch his candlelit touched was red, red, RED, the deepest crimson. There was an unhallowed feeling here touched by what could only be described as Evil, what appears to have been rot, something carved out of the ground and wood here that was fed by the pit below where what appeared to have been blood, now saturating the earth to the point it was as painted red as the wooden and masonry walls and foundation. How many souls had been brought down here from the guests above? What diabolism was practiced? The heretic desired to know, in his deepest heart, what it was. He found out that the owners, an Ornassi man and his Noddite wife, had left Haven after the fires start by the prelate, took a ship back to Bospor, leaving behind everything when the town was almost lost. The trail has cooled, but the lead still existed, if he wanted to follow it to its source.  Secret: Trail of Blood (O:21.29)An Ornassi man by the name of Ypatos and his Noddite wife ran a hostel in the refugee city of Haven, but left soon after the great fire caused by the prelate who burned down his stone church. An agent of the Arch-Traitor discovered in the belly of that hostel a red room stained and saturated with blood, a sacrificial space used for some diabolical purpose as of yet unknown, marked with an unknown sigil. A week after the great fire, justice is served… The prelate was thrown upon the open muddy path that lead outside the city, with little more than rags upon him. The inhabitants of the town crowded in a wide semircircle closing in. They had been waiting for some time. Many had lost loved ones and livelihoods in the fire that had killed all of the people within the church, burning them to ash within, and the high prelate seemed entirely insane, gibbering even now. It seemed at any moment they would descend upon him, and kill him right there, but a figure moved through the crowd, parting it by her force of presence as she was accompanied by two warriors, who withdrew knives. She came up upon the babbling prelate, who barely seemed cognizant of her as she began her sentence. “Buraq, son of Marab, you are henceforth banished.” Everyone’s eyes hardened at the mention of that word. Banishment might seem to an outsider too kind of punishment, but many nodded approvingly even as the word hardened their hearts. The two men with their knives pulled up the man, and then began to carve a mark into his forehead, blood pooling and spilling into his eyes. “You shall drink no more from the water of the well, feed nor more from the bread and salt of the table, or sup no more from the milk of mortal kindness. You are stranger to all of the people of Nod, and they will offer you not succor anywhere in the world.” In effect, it was a death sentence as well in these lands, but in the Noddite tradition, it is not upon them to soil their hands with the blood, but rather allow the gaze of Idrian-Ulm to burn away the sin of the banished, and live in his shame, for as long as that wretched life lasted. The prelate cried out from the pain as the sigil of banishment was carved in his head, and began to smoke without fire, and burn without heat. To the sight of the Noddites it was obvious and throbbed with a certain amount of power, and antipathy, and they felt themselves averting their eyes from him naturally. He began to speak, calling out but no one could hear him. He screamed loudly, begging for them to hear his warning. “They have come! Thirteen in number, as Thirteen before! You can turn away, but we are but instruments of their Doom! Just as they destroyed the giants they will destroy us!” But no one could hear him. The sigil was burned into his flesh, and the men tossed him out. The magic would make him not so much invisible but as a pointed absence, and all would know him for what he was in these lands, and beyond, if they shared the same blood of Nod. Erekle, the banished, the mad, trod through the mud, returning to his sobbing gibbering as he did. The heretic cursed the gods for not protecting the people from the fire. The banished cursed the horrors for not choosing him, when he had heralded their return.
Forcefully "Recruit" an Agent. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+2 5 Success with Style. Buraq, a Stranger Origin: Banished Cleric A Noddite mortal. +2 Clever, +2 Forceful, +1 Sneaky Distant from this place, far to the north, in the cathedral-city of Orcades… A young deacon named Walde waited patiently for the turnkey to carefully unlock each door in succession as they moved through the chamber. “Is this all truly necessary?” The deacon was nervous, not sure why he was given the scroll by the bishop, but not likely to question much of the task. The turnkey was sullen and silent, and Walde filled the silence with his neurosis. “I mean, I know they are forbidden, but the point of libraries is access, and should the matter change and come back up for debate, you might think it would make sense to not have everything behind under lock and key like this. This will take days of study to sort through all the Apochrypha! And each time, I will be forced to wait and wait as each of these infernal portals is opened up.” The turnkey spoke for the first time in a miserable tone. “Perhaps it is because they wanted it to be so onerous that they did so.” The deacon did not appreciate the dark humor, not one bit, but in hindsight had to agree with the common man, but for now simply strode past once the final door was done, and began to descend the winding spiral staircase. Orcades had myriad subterranean passages and chambers, most maintained by his own church as compared to his more lively fellows. Already he felt himself getting an unsightly pallor from all this spending time in the dark and musty. His noble father had sent Walde, like he sent many of his problems, to the church, as he hated himself, and the gods. Walde was already quite eager to despise his new profession, and the House of Adjustment did little to reverse that sentiment. Would that he be a friar! And break open his souls of years of walking, forsake worldly wealth, and peddle like a beggar? Would that he be a flamen! And give up the sweet embrace of the fairer sex and romantic love? Perhaps the life of a cardinal, if that awaited him truly, would not be so bad. The droning of the confessionals already wore upon him however far more than Meverab’s chains might. By the time he had reached the end of the stairs, he had half forgotten the reason detailed in the assignment. Only to gather the texts and put them together. So he dreamed of the different paths his life could have took if he had not been the third son of a poor house, passing by again and again the single scroll that burned with a red symbol...
Carefully Recruit an Agent. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+4 5 Success with Style. Walde, a Librarian Origin: Highborn Deacon A Westenfolk mortal. +2 Arcane, +2 Forceful, +1 Clever
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Apr 5, 2016 02:51
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 Deep in the Praxian jungle… The scavenger does not resist, after so many signs not to. In this there is a cunning sort of wisdom, as the lengthening shadow of the black ziggurat of the tyrant creeps overhead, and his body slackens, his blood cools and his pupils dance about the ground and these creatures, breathing slowly with a hiss. They could have torn him apart long ago, with their choking numbers, but have not done so. He did not understand why, only understood that it meant he was not dead, yet, so he conserved his energy for the time being, not thrashing uselessly, but he was not completely still. His jaw snapped catching one of those near the eyes that had harassed him before, catching its lithe neck and snapping it quickly with a jerk, as the rest went into motion thereafter to silence him, but it was already dead when they forced it from his mouth, his blood quickening and warming from the slight hint of scarlet at the edges of his long teeth. As they entered the darkness with a bunch of glittering eyes all about, he twisted and writhed, and with a sudden burst of power snatched another in his jaws and used the now enclosed ground to something of an advantage, slamming to each side and impacting against many at once. One managed to pick out his eye, the one on the side he did not snap at, and half blind, burning with the heat of his blood, he skittered away with them hot upon his trail... But it was not away from the ziggurat he went, but rather deeper. He would fight tooth and claw to survive, and nothing more, and nothing less. He was not a tyrant, but a survivor, a scavenger, but these beings would not take away his instinct, even with all their snapping jaws and grasping claws.  Mystery: Trailing the Blue Lizards (O:49.26)There is known means of ingress known to anyone in Praxis, yet the coming and goings of the compsos, the bird-like saurians that appear, disappear, and reappear seemingly at will, seems to be tied to the ziggurat. If one were to follow their movements, or even simply follow them, they may become closer to discovering the secrets of the hidden temple. Meanwhile, in the Speartooth camp... The tribe hissed and spat at each other, erupt into chaos and uncertainty over the assumed death of their leader, so soon after the loss of the last one. Many were quite content to scatter to every wind, and strike out to create new clutches and tribes, or perhaps try and slip into the passage of the Bluethroats. A few thought it would be better to simply return to the Murkwake and submit themselves to the abominable Trog King, rather than die in the jungle, but others simply felt that was leaping into the frog's belly without a fight and they came nearly to blows. The clutch guardians, having recently laid eggs, vehemently opposed leaving, and it was from that the clutchmate and often seen as rival to the scavenger, Snatches-the-Prize, felt they had their chance, almsot leaping with joy. "I am swiftest and keenest, I will lead us here." It was a simple declaration. "None else can lead the hunt." "There is nothing here but scale-birds and death, leave the eggs to the jungle. The tribe must live." A larger, more brutish lizard-man opposed the leadership of this one. They hissed and circled, before the cry of trial by stone was heard, and echoed repeatedly through the tribe. Around one of the monolithic edifices of the old tyrants, they gathered whatever weapon they could find, and circled around it, looking for an opening to thrust their spear without breaking the shaft or obsidian tip against the harder stone. Quick and clever Snatches though she would have it, and protect the clutch, but broke her spear upon the stone, which was then pushed on top of her by the other lizard's shoulder, as she squirmed and kicked. All of the lizardfolk, even the females, quickly descended to tear her apart, limb from limb, so that the tribe may not waste the unworthy one. After she was picked clean, they left her bones underneath the stone. The females, compelled by their instinct and the sacred nature, remained with the eggs, expecting only death, while the males left without anything to tie them after the collapse of their leadership, expecting only death. The lizardfolk did not waste time. They quickly moved every minute, and as soon as the scavenger was gone, he was lost to them. Yet though much of the tribe scattered, the eggs remained, with seeds of life within them.
Quickly Recruit Agent. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+2 1 Failure. Though mechanically there is no difference, narratively the tribe of the Speartooth is threatened existentially. Tricky Dick Nixon fucked around with this message at 03:58 on Apr 5, 2016 |
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Apr 5, 2016 03:52
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 Ahiram The Man Of Iron and Bronze, He Who Stared Death In The Face, That Which Knows No Limits, The Longing For Perfection, The Unbridled Ambition, The Spiked Freak "Do you hear that?" Ahiram asked. He was alone in the castle garden; no one was around, but the statues. "All those noises and voices... One shouts out, and a dozen respond. Something in this world has begun to wake up." The metal man turned and extended an open palm towards the south. "And I see our friend Orcus is still alive and out there." A grin appeared on his face. "You're itching for a fight, aren't you? In due time. I've only just begun to enjoy the fruits of my victory. We are at the dawn of a great age, and I have not the time to waste." None of the other voices seemed worth his time, either. At least not for now. The only other thing that caught Ahiram's attention was the letter that found its way into the hands of one of the castle's statues. But even that did not capture much interest. As a greeting, or as a piece of diplomacy, there was nothing really to it at all. It was just a single word, and not even an interesting word at that. Just a simple, casual greeting that expected to be interesting in and of itself. Perhaps if the circumstances were different, it would have been. So, as the world spoke, whispered, and roared, Ahiram listened but did not respond. He simply felt no need. Takanago fucked around with this message at 06:16 on Apr 5, 2016 |
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Apr 5, 2016 05:47
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 Lozeth Lorgonith The Power Profound, The Great Annihilator, The Rewriter of All, The Crystal God, The Final Peace, Magic Incarnate Something had changed in Ibyz Vortizh, for the first time since it was sealed. Something had disturbed the peace of its realm. Something was moving. What was it? A letter, fluttering down from thin air. And a moment later, a storm of sound echoing throughout Lozeth's extended consciousness. It seemed it was not alone. Perhaps, in time, it would have a reason to contact these beings; for now, it suited Lozeth's purpose to remain silent. The letter is crystallized and set aside; the echoing cries and probing minds are allowed to fade into the distance. Dealing with them could wait; for now, it needed to break the seals. Its power was far too limited here. Somewhere else, Lozeth Lorgonith began to flow through the most nascent and incautious Wizards, filling them with grandiose plans and a hunger for even more power. It begins. The Spine of the World Mountains Marko pulled himself over the ledge, his breaths sharp and painful, fogging the edges of his goggles. He'd been climbing for about an hour and his arms were killing him. He rubbed his lips experimentally beneath his scarf and winced, pulling away fingers dotted with blood. drat this dry air, he thought to himself. He'd have to see if another shipment of ointment had arrived when he returned to Venthethal; it was sold at a premium, but it was worth it for preventing bloody lips and cracked skin. But he couldn't return yet. Not until he found something up here. Something up here was calling him. He had first felt it when he was surveying the area for mining. There wasn't much here that wasn't already in supply, but he just had a strange feeling in his bones about this place. He forced himself to his feet and slammed his climbing pick into the wall in front of him. Couldn't stop yet; he needed to find whatever it was that had his intuition tingling. Failing that, he needed to find some shelter. Nightfall would bring temperatures that could kill unless he found somewhere to keep himself out of the wind. And really, it'd be a pity to die up here; he was doing pretty well for himself as an independent miner. He'd already made a name for himself as someone with a keen sense for valuable ore, and a few mining companies even paid him under the table to preferentially sell them his finds. He'd probably be able to retire somewhere warmer one day, assuming he could stay alive that long. Of course, he reflected as he hauled himself over the next precipice, maybe it's not just a coincidence that everybody avoids this place. Maybe it was just unspoken knowledge that there was nothing here worth risking your life over. This whole thing was starting to feel like a total waste of time. He was about to glance up to gauge how much daylight he had left, but that's when it caught his eye. A cave in the next cliff-face, about 4 meters up. Completely invisible against the dark stone of the mountain when viewed from the ground, but in a good position to get a good view of Venthethal if you stood in it and looked back down. Maybe there would even be an exposed ore vein in there; it'd be nice to have a chance to get something valuable out of all this climbing. A few minutes later, as he reached up and began to struggle into the mouth of the cave, he was surprised to find himself helped up by a pair of firm hands. A vaguely familiar-looking man dressed in miner's garb stood before him, smiling softly. "Welcome. I was beginning to think you'd never get here." Marko started to stammer a question, but the man just shook his head and began to guide him deeper into the cave with a firm grip around his shoulders, speaking softly as he did. "You may have seen me in Venthethal once or twice before; we watch the ones who have potential. They invariably find themselves drawn here, and that's all the initiation we need. You'll understand it all once you see it." They turned a corner and emerged into a chamber filled with soft blue light. Every surface glistened with crystals, and at the center rested an immense cluster of crystalline growth. It was... beautiful. More wonderful than anything Marko could've imagined. All his protests died in his throat, and he could feel something within him awakening, a power he'd never even dreamed of. The man with him nodded and flexed the hand that wasn't on his shoulder, sending a bolt of energy crackling into the ceiling. The crystals absorbed the blast and pulsed brighter as one for a moment. "Welcome, Marko, to the Brotherhood of the Shard. The power it has awoken within us all is only the beginning. We think it's a god, or something like one. I can feel a great deal of strength in you alone; just imagine what we'll be able to do once our numbers grow large enough!" Marko smiled and looked down at the light dancing between his fingertips. He felt so wonderfully alive. "Anything, brother. Between the people I know and what we can do, we'll be able to do anything." Several Years Later, in Venthethal Marko took a seat in his quarters and smiled as he opened the latest note that had been slipped into his hands. The smile turned into a chuckle as he learned about a certain local merchant's dalliances. Muttering to himself, "Oh dear, oh dear, that sort of relationship is very unprofessional. Could ruin your reputation if it gets out," he put the note in his lockbox and set it back under the loose floorboards. It had taken some time, but he had built a up a trusted network of informants all throughout the city. As the Brotherhood's local representative (and most powerful member), he had full control of their combined funds; it wasn't so hard to bribe people when you had several dozen miners contributing their wealth. And of course, once you start getting dirt on people, you can start blackmailing them for even more information on other people. Nothing came in or out that he--and by conjunction the Brotherhood--didn't know about. The blackmail and backroom deals were only a pleasant bonus. What he was looking for, what they were all looking for, was rumors about Magic. The Shard granted them great power on its own, but if they could find more artifacts like that, they'd be... well, it was too early to be sure, but they could be like gods. They could carve out empires of their own and reshape this world as they liked. They wouldn't have to sit up here on the frozen edge of the world, digging for precious stones in these hellish mountains. Grinning, he threw himself back on his bed and idly sent a few sparks between his fingers, mesmerized by their beauty. People like him, they deserved better than this place. With any luck, they'd get it soon. Horror Action In O 05.02, Lozeth will Weirdly (+3) Recruit a Cult of magically-sensitive local miners who have fallen under the sway of its power, spending 1 Aberrance to invoke Servitors: Corrupted Mages and using my free invocation of Harbinger: A Silent World to add +2. Weirdly Recruit Cult, Difficulty +2: 4dF+5 5, a Success with Style. pre:Name: The Brotherhood of the Shard, Hidden Magical Cult Origin: Magic-Corrupted Miners Approaches: Weird +3 Uncanny +2 Leery +2 Subtle +1 Boost: We Know These Mountains Well The Brotherhood of the Shard Weirdly recruits the Venthethalian miner Marko in O 05.02 as an Agent: Weirdly Recruit Agent, Difficulty +1: 4dF+3 4, Success with Style pre:Name: Marko, Novitiate Wizard Origin: Successful Independent Miner Weird +3 Uncanny +2 Leery +2 Boost: Venthethal Connections Marko Leerily creates Spies in O 06.03. Leerily Create Spies, Difficulty +0: 4dF+2 0, Tie. This doesn't generate a mystery since it wasn't done by a Cult, so there's no sense in spending a boost just to bump this up a tier, where the additional reward is... a boost. Thanks to paradoxGentleman for getting me to notice that I'd misinterpreted how Success with Style worked; reading it tired my brain inserted "times" between 3 and greater. Dachshundofdoom fucked around with this message at 22:09 on Apr 6, 2016 |
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Apr 6, 2016 05:07
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 WrathThe Font of Strength, the Mountain Beneath the Earth, the Shaper, the Third Emotion. A gust of wind kicked up a cloud of ash and dust around the lone man as he stumbled blindly up the hill. Exhaustion and hunger threatened to lay him low with every step he took. Why, he often thought to himself, had they come to this cursed land? Why had he agreed to accompany his brother on this expedition? Why had the lizards attacked them? Why, why, why, the questions never stopped circulating. Choking out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, Xenophon croaked to himself, "Stupid, stupid boy. As if reasons are needed by beasts." He'd long ago lost any feeling in his legs, ceaseless as their movements had been. He didn't know why he kept walking. He was going to die out here, so what purpose did moving hold? Still, he would not stop. Perhaps he was becoming as smoke-addled as the lizards. It was a wonder that he wasn't exhaling the stuff with how much he'd taken in. Now that would be a fun trick. A souvenir from his stay in hell, where death walked with forked tongue and the heat baked away every trace of sanity. Xenophon's foot slipped as he crested the hill. Down he tumbled before coming to a rest on his back at the bottom. He stared up at the clouded sky, pondering how long it had been since he'd sprinted off into this hell, fleeing the slaughter at the beach. It was impossible to tell night from day here. The ever-present lava flows and fire pits were the only judges of time here. Slowly he got to his knees again and cast a look around. In front of him and to his right lay nothing but more black hills and spiked mountains. To his left was almost the same, save one difference. An odd shape stood tall in the distance. Seeing no other incentives in the other directions, Xenophon once again resumed his trudging in the direction of the odd shape. It could have been an hour or it could have been a day before the soot-covered man stood before the walls of the city. Initially he had thought it to be a trick of the eye. A sign of the land's madness overtaking him. But no, aged though they were from time and the horrific elements, these walls were real. Xenophon would have cried had the heat not robbed him of tears long ago. With a renewed vigor he entered the city, hoping against hope that it had not been established by scaled hands. The streets were silent aside from the ever-present roar of the elements in the distance. As he wandered, a strange feeling creeped over him. The thirst and hunger that had so plagued him were oddly dulled. The further he walked, the stronger he felt. Oh, he thought, if only the expedition had pierced the darkness of this land long enough to reach this place. The treasures here could have made them richer than kings. While he'd been lost in his thoughts, his feet had led him to the center of the city. Before him was a structure of immense size. This was the place he meant to find. Why? He could not say. His feet had brought him here, so this was it. Looking back, he could not even begin to guess at the route he'd taken to get here. Besides, why would he want to go back. Back was death. This arena was the only path left to him. The interior of the arena was much like the city outside, filled with rubble and ash. There was one very large peculiarity. On the far end of the place was what appeared to be a giant statue leaning against the stands. The colossal figure was a horrid mixture of man, rock, and darkness. It proved to be no inanimate statue however, as after Xenophon stepped onto the sand ringing the arena, the thing began to lumber towards him. All his previous energy drained away, leaving him helpless before the beast as it covered the field in a few mere steps. "WELCOME TO MY PRISON, MORTAL." The giant boomed, "YOU STAND BEFORE THE THIRD EMOTION OF YOUR KIND, WRATH!" It paused, as if expecting some sort of reaction from the utterly stunned man before it. Finding none forthcoming, Wrath continued, "AND YOU... SOMETHING HAS AWOKEN THE PART OF ME WITHIN YOU. WAS IT THE SKITTERING ONES? OR PERHAPS A RANCID BEAST DEVOURED SOMEONE DEAR TO YOU?" A low growl emanated from Wrath then. "IT MATTERS LITTLE TO ME WHAT IT WAS. THE HATE WITHIN YOU SMOLDERS WHEN IT SHOULD BE AN INFERNO. BUT YOU ARE FORTUNATE, FOR I HAVE A WAY TO AID YOU." Xenophon could not answer. He had most certainly heard Wrath, the ringing in his ears testified to that. In his mind however, the events of the beach had begun to loop with increasing clarity. Every sword stroke, every spear thrust. Over and over it played, forcing him to witness the deaths of kith and kin at the claws of the vile things that clambered from the shore. And with every action taken, Wrath's words roared like thunder. "YOU WANT THE STRENGTH TO TAKE REVENGE!? I OFFER YOU THIS! ACT AS MY EYES UPON THE WORLD AND YOU SHALL NEVER KNOW WEAKNESS AGAIN!" His sword locked in the ribs of a lizard. The blood of a sailor staining the teeth of another. Run, came the cry from down the beach. Run to the hills. Leave them to die like the coward you are. "GIVE YOURSELF OVER TO ANGER! LISTEN TO NOTHING BUT RAGE! YOU ARE MORTAL, BUT BE MINE AND THE WORLD WILL TREMBLE AT YOUR FEET!" Awfully Creating an agent with the Free Invoke: 3 Xenophon the Survivor Origin: Stranded Explorer Ornassi Awful: +3 Restless: +2 Uncanny: +2 Boost: Strength of Wrath Agent Action: Xenophon Filled with such a fervor as he'd never known before, Xenophon dug through ruined houses. He searched not for treasure, but for a blade to replace the one he'd lost. Already he had forgotten his previous physical woes. Now every fiber of his being was focused towards a singular goal. Find something sharp to drive into the foul hearts of the damned lizards. Agent Restlessly Creating an Advantage: 4 (2 + boost) Aspect Gained: Scavenged Blade Brainamp fucked around with this message at 20:14 on Apr 6, 2016 |
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Apr 6, 2016 07:42
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  Mystery: Absent Watches (O:17.17)Merchants report strange happenings in Openhand Pass. The men-at-arms of the patrols appear to be lessened in some way, only keeping token watches and skeleton crews in parts, and leaving the roads and climbing the mountains for some purpose unknown. Those who go exploring will find what appears to be a freshly excavated mine, though rather crudely done with spades and picks and little bracing, and it appears to have collapse before going much of anywhere, yet there is a sinister quality to the sound of the wind blowing over the stones. The whispers that rode out from the winds that swept the pass were carried further and further away from the palace, twisting in form and spreading like a flight of monarchs over the land, even past their intended ears, and with the wind came twists here and there, the truly majestic power of the Master finding purchase with the very singing of the air, and with this single action, came many ripples. Nearby, at the keep of Monacastria, north of Openhand Pass… The rolling wind passed through the hair of Don Giardo, the cavalier, astride his horse as he left the great keep behind him. The words beckoned him, and he tried to puzzle it, his eyes squinting in the sun before he mouthed his prayers and devotions, turning down to the winding, rolling path to the mountains. This quest was a personal one, as his old friend Anselm had not reported back for some time, and the reports coming from the merchants heading north of holes to nowhere and absent guardsmen seemed too unusual to let rest. The cavalier had to admit he lost his temper with the castellan and perhaps that was his real reason, but he was not going to suffer the men there impugning the honor of a bosom friend, and kicking the side of his horse, set off to prove them wrong. Back on the ramparts, the castellan and his men regarded the reports and the movements of the bandits, and passingly one of the sentires looked over to the man as he disappeared over the crest of a hill. “You have made a quester of our Don Giardo, my castellan.” It wasn’t meant to be humorous, and had a touch of uncertainty to it. The castellan waved off this uncertainty. “His blood will cool, we must know if our captain has turned to brigandry or simply truancy. Nothing must interfere with our plans.” The sentry nodded and made the sign of the sun. “All for the duke.” Not the duchess. Faction Reaction: Grand Duchy of Pretonia Carefully Recruit an Agent. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+2 5 Success with style. pre:Don Giardo, a Cavalier A Westenfolk mortal. Origin: Hotblooded Noble +2 Flashy, +2 Forceful, +1 Quick “Are We Not Old Friends?” (Boost) Inside the Castle Castagne at Pretala, in the royal quarterage of the Grand Duchess… The wind filtered in through latticed windows, filling the room with the fluttering of wings and words, as a single blue rose hung suspended from a thread above a group of nine lovers and one beloved. Each of the men and women who had assembled here were familiar faces to each other, all bound by the same motivation, here essentially in the very bedchamber of their subject of devotion, who stood in her orange silks, dressed properly in the wear of her office, though her servant lifted the heavy burden of the ducal necklace and mantle from her as she began to speak to them, all under the rose. "I have known some of you since I was a child, like you, gentle Gerion," nodding to the silver haired rogue with the smoldering smile, "and some but little, like you, young Matias," nodding to a callow youth that must not be more than a squire, "but all of you have proven to me thus far your loyalty. I could never question it. I can only offer you all my deepest grief, that we are born into such a world as this." She turned upon her heel, unbinding the sheath of her sword from her hips as she did, a gentle look upon her face belied by the sterness natural to her eyes. The words were echoed from the fading of Anselm's voice to the fluttering of the air, and msut have touched her heart for they echoed his soul's sentiment but twisted just so much, to not serve Him, but Her. "The world is cruelly left out of balance, and all blood strives to serve, but none have proven worthy. As our country is threatened at all sides by these petty rebellions and disarray, remember that splitters and the fractious are tools of the Unraveler. We are as one single thread, wound together, and all countries of the world yearn to be spun into the same cloth. It has been once before, and so shall it be again." There was a response of various sorts, but all eager and solemn, from her devotees, who answered as if in solemn prayer within a shrine. "The world has been without a King for ages too long. Nay, it no longer needs a King. It needs a Queen." She unsheathed her sword, the glimmering silver Argrybrand, which shone at this time with a supernatural light. Legend had it the Castagnes, from the very first Ilhard of Castagne, received this sword from marriage to one of the SIlver King's many daughters. It was a sign of nobility, of trust. It was a claim. "If you love me, you will serve me, until death, until rebirth, until the Holy Kingdom come!" "Until Kingdom come!" came the chorus, and then she lowered the blade, first to the woman at the center. Choosing her as the First was a statement, and Armina had been as a sister to her for so long, but such affections had nothing to do with this, for in the new order, there will be no equals or sisters to the Queen, only servants, and when Armina kissed the tip of her sworn lady's blade gently, after gingerly lifting it to her mouth with her hands upon the edge, trusting and absolutely loyal, this exchange of courtly love became repeated until each of the nine were so duly appointed. Thus began Pretonia's secret service, the Queensmen. Force Reaction: The Grand Duchess Sneakily Recruit Force. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+2 2 Success. pre:The Queensmen of Pretonia A Westenfolk force. Origin: Secret Service +2 Forceful, +2 Sneaky Somewhere far away, in the paths leading down from a mountain monastery... A solidly built man in a simple shift and belt, with a cowl over his head and a long quarterstaff hitting the ground as he passed, came to an outcropping that overlooked the canopy of Inaba Forest and beyond, including the colors of the Wedstron Expanse, and in the very far distance, the colors of sunset bringing out the unique colors of the Golden Mountains, which shone even here across Westenfal, so very far away. The wind carried with them beautiful words and sound, butterflies of the mind that fluttered invisibly about the minds and inspired them, and so did they flutter about this monk's head. They whispered and echoed, until very suddenly a similarly invisible hand snapped out, giving a great thunderclap that dissolved them in the sudden mindscape that appeared and disappeared around the psionic, twitching his lips at the thought. The air had changed. Something was coming. Divine Reaction: An Unknown Cloister Arcanely Recruits an Agent. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+4 3 Success. pre:A Monk of an Unknown Cloister A Cradish mortal. Origin: Monastery Guardian +4 Arcane, +3 Forceful Tricky Dick Nixon fucked around with this message at 11:22 on Apr 6, 2016 |
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Apr 6, 2016 10:59
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 Across the straits, upon the sister island of Kadatheron, within the shrine of Bekwae... The hierophant stood amidst their little convocation, his very presence emitting an ethereal glow as he moved up to call upon the single petitioner in her intricate mask compared to his more simple one, along with her finer and Vendalic spun robes with their knotwork and design. The was a mortal man, dusky of skin and his features hidden, but joined with translucent arms that were signs of his closeness to divinity, as many of the hierophants aspired to the trappings of divinity as such. For his part, he bent down and spoke simply behind his wooden mask to the petitioner brought before them. "Hierodule Engl, your words have been heard. Any who deface the beauty of the paradise upon earth in Sarnath must be reminded of the awe that this world deserves, You will be this instrument. Bring peace to Sarnath between the high elves that have give to use much, and the mortals that have taken their mantle. We are all made in the holiest and most beautiful of images. Remind them of this shared heritage, before it is too late." He uncorked the wineskin, created from the bladder of a beast, and anointed her with the wine, and then lifted his mask just enough to reveal bizarrely purple lips, supping once and then offering it to her, and she did much the same, as they began to exchange the token of their communion together, whilst the servants carried away the sacrifices barely visisble in the shadows away by their ankles. Divine Reaction: The Temple of Life Flashily Recruits an Agent. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+3 4 pre:Engl, a Hierodule A Cradish mortal. Origin: Emissary of the Beautiful +3 Flashy, +2 Arcane
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Apr 6, 2016 11:23
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 Your minions have brought you the following truths about the world...  The Magi Sect is a Cult and breakway religion formed from the Aghissi Sect of the ogres, but primarily worshipped by humans, which takes on Abyssid and Noddite teachings as well, under the prophet Zaar. Zaar was an albino tormented by the sun, according to the legends, who grew increasingly tormented and cursed when he traveled into the heart of the great desert, and in his slavery by the mullahs learned many secrets, including pyromancy, as well as a liberational theology that preached the end of the caste system as a political unit and elevation of it as purely spiritual, supposing that all souls are emanations of the sun, and that Hell's chains dragging it down was merely a function of illusory desire and materialism, which had to be burned away. It has transformed with the times from the sheerly radical beliefs, combining the figure of Aghis and Idrian as Idhris, while Meverab and Hell are essentially seen as the same thing. It takes much of the zealotry and mysticism of the ogre religion and converts it with a slightly politicized belief of change and iconoclasm towards the current Deathspeaker orthodoxy, and preaching that personal enlightenment as a path towards eventual freedom from the chains of hell, and how all souls, being emanations of the sun, live many lives, essentially believing in reincarnation, which is somewhat similar to an obscure belief of the Medhari, pointing to another influence. However, the magi are most known for being pyromancers and potentially sorcerers, who have gained political influence in many courts for their willingness to fit whatever philosophical niche is waiting for them. The Magi Sect has no Gifts to offer currently. Their approaches are +3 Arcane, +2 Sneaky, +2 Flashily, +1 Clever, +1 Careful. Within the arcane fortress of Amon Qor, at the ends of the world... Emboldened perhaps by the growing influence of this historical society, or perhaps due to machinations already in place with the ascension of the current archmagus, the Magi Sect has grown somewhat more bold. They have tried to leverage their currently politically influential members among the courts of the pashas and beys to start acting more in public and pressure the royal court. Instead, they seem to have provoked a pogrom of suspected magi in Iram, and the archmagus has become very upset, becoming convinced that there might be some other force, or a spy from the Badishah's court in his own midst, and starts looking upon his own ranks for possible dangers. Divine Reaction: The Magi Sect Flashily Creates Advantage. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+2 0 Failure. In the far western port city of Barat... A vedic arrives in Barat, preparing to board the next ship north to Tetrathia, having been given secret orders from a dastur tied to the Badishah. These orders explicitly request the vedic, named Siyavush, present himself as a political exile, and learn as mcuh as he can of the internal structure within Amon Qor under the archmagus Ahrimane, and then report back with his intelligence in Iram. Siyavush is already a practiced spy, so it comes of little surprise to him that he is being tailed, not only by agents of the Deathspeakers, but the Badishah and the magi both, eyeing them behind their coverings with his thin, serpent-like eyes, moving between the bazaars and hanging rugs, attempting to outmaneuver until the plan is sprung, and he is attacked by the Badishah's agent, who pulls a wicked khukri and attempts to sever the spy's head with a bit more aplomb than a show battle should have, but Siyavush knows to take this quite seriously, plunging the three spikes held covertly within his hands up into the neck and chin of the agent, tossing him aside and quickly breaking into a run for the departing boat as the hind guards sit and watch impassively, for slaves tend to make poor guards, which is just as well for the purposes of this bloody pantomime. With the blood of the Badishah's man on his hands, Siyavush begins his voyage with the picture of watching magi (and the dastur's men no doubt) considering that exit, and he makes no bigger show of it, merely paying his coin as agreed to the fat satrap upon the surface of his barge, and disappearing beneath the hold below, for him to find his sea legs. Force Reaction: Abyssid Empire (for some reason, I should probably have used a notable but the result would have been the same and it's way too late for me to think too hard about this) Carefully Recruit an Agent. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+2 1 Success. pre:Siyavush, an Informant A Abyssid mortal. Origin: Vedic Spy +2 Careful, +2 Clever
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Apr 6, 2016 12:02
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 The very ruin becomes alive, mixed with iron and bronze workings with the smoking and toxic pit, coming alive with the creaking and clattering of machinery within its walls. It seems as if to move, in diabolical violation of the laws of thaumaturgy and the world, an edifice certainly not of Law, but also not purely Chaos, but corrupted Evil. The occult machinery and the rising spire by which That Which Has No Limits gazes from gives him an unseen but certainly felt rolling influence over the surroundings, as the gaseous smoke rises up and darkens the sky. The encroaching parts of the Palladic Heartland or Aittic Woods begin to sicken, if not completely wilt and die, and only at the very edges. The people whisper that old Hiram's ghost must be building something in there, with increasingly wild tales, but none dare approach the toxic fortress. Your extension of your power extends not simply across the land, but beneath it, for you discover the Secret of Hiram's Landing as well. Secret of Hiram's Landing: Adamant Mines of Old Prince Hiram (U:19.26)Sealed away since a time where you were still mortal, you find a swell of memories from your youth of your father's increasing illness and obsession with digging in the earth, searching for something, but whenever you broached the subject, it was as if a great nothing occupied his mind, and he could not explain to you to any satisfaction. How did you forget this? It was almost as if the memory itself wormed itself from your brain and became manifest here, because the mines are exactly as you last saw them. Indeed, though they have collapsed from decay, there are carts of stone from the unearthing happening here in total secret, before you had this place sealed away because... You cannot remember. You only find the deepest chamber, which is wide as a meadow, with a perfectly smooth floor compared to the hewn stone of the ceiling and walls, but the floor is of a completely different substance: Adamantite. One of the three primordial and miraculous substances, along with ambrosia and mithril. Adamantite, a mineral sacred to Triglav, cannot be cut or separated with any mundane substance, arcane force, or divine whim, it can only be dissolved by ambrosia or broken with mithril, neither of which you have at hand. Perhaps with your diabolical power you could develop some other means to do so, but it would be a herculean task (Overcome Difficulty +9) to begin extracting and utilizing the adamantite for your own purposes without the other substances at hand. But that leaves a Mystery all its own: This is not a natural mineral vein, and your father nearly destroyed his kingdom throwing slaves and coin to trying to unearth the fullness of this deposit, but has seemed to only scratch the surface, and it could be described as acres across. It also has the faintest hint of a curve, as if it was the surface of a globe, or dome. Finally, you are certainly of one thing: It's hollow, and there's a terrifying echo into oblivion with every step upon it. This is where your father went mad. This is where you murdered him, you remember finally, and why you sealed the place, and his bones are still here on the ground here at the foot of the excavated entrance, nearly dust, weak with the mortality that allowed this place to corrupt him. Certainly, girded with iron and bronze, you shall resist where he did not. Your Eyes reveal to you the following truths about the world...  The Heartland of Palladia is a Land in Ornassus, the southron continent, and is considered widely the breadbasket of the world, with the most fertile soil delicately tended and blessed as it is between the shrines of Heru and Nogad. Its Terrain is Bountiful Farmland, and its Land aspect is Great Cornucopia. While the ancestors of the Ornassi are thought to have come out of Sarcis originally, or perhaps Rockbridge Crossing, or depending on the historical school of thought, from the meeting of the two cultures of Sarcis and Rockbridge upon this fertile land, Palladia is nonetheless considered the center of the Ornassi civilization, and thus all civilization. The endless waves and fields of grain, groves of olives, orchards of fruit, and in the dryer parts vineyards of grapes, all put food on plates around the world, making the city-states here very wealthy by the bounty of the land. There are also rich tin and copper deposits, and even silver mines in the Black Mountains, which combined with plentiful fish and game leave Palladia without lack of much of anything, which has made it the subject of much attempts at conquest, and pressing for tribute. Hedgehogs, rabbits, deer, and fowl are all very common, and Palladic swans are quite prized for their beauty and their eggs. Fowl, cattle, and goats are all cultivated as livestock, but the greatest herds are of swine, which are cultivated as a sacred sacrificial animal. The cat has adopted civilization here as much as it has most of the south, and is the primary companion animal. There are even a few carefully protected horse herds, though Ertacia has larger ones. Monsters are nearly unheard of in this land, due to the sacred huntresses of Heru that are an occasional sight. Hyenas used to roam these lands, and used to be cultivated as hunting animals, but have been replaced as predators by wolves, and the huntresses of Heru mostly eschew their use since the animals are hated due to their association with gnolls and have been hunted nearly to extinction. The Palladic Heartlands contain the Strongholds of Herapetra, Bospor, Hyklos, and Kyros. The Secret of the Palladic Heartland is undiscovered.  The Aittic Woods are a Land in Ornassus, the southron continent, and is considered holy territory, despite having receded greatly from its original expanse over much of the north of Palladia. Its Terrain is Cultivated Woods, and its Land aspect is Sacred Forest. Many legends are tied to this forest, and trespassing is forbidden to all save those initiated by the Aittic Mysteries, devoted of Idrian or Heru, or those given escort by the sacred huntresses that live in the small villages and lodges within, living lives completely separate from the rest of the world and inducting new members as they come from all around the world and many different cultures. The huntresses are seen as somewhat strange for their superstitions and segregated life, but they train their entire lives for the sacred task of hunting monsters and protecting the hearth and home of other mortals, but also teaching them the means to provide for themselves and protect their own hearth, seeking to give them the tools rather than have them be relied upon forever. No one else is allowed to hunt here, and the huntresses live entirely off foraged fruit and nuts, and hunted game, and eschew agriculture as part of their vows, since such bounty is for others. They train at first with the many prey animals in the forest, especially the wild swine herds, before then hunting the wolf packs that have come into this land since the coming of Ez, and finally leaving the Woods to learn how to hunt their first monstrous beast, usually a gryphon in the Black Mountains or a sealion on the Rockbridge Crossing, or often both, to represent mastery over the frontiers of sea and sky that mortals do not often cross. There is also the Ornassi city-state of Aitne that inhabits the southern edge of the forest, and is often a staging point for the huntresses that reach out to civilization. The last clan of hyenas is also protected here by the huntresses, far from the eyes of those who would misguidedly fear them. The Aittic Woods contain the Stronghold of Aitne, as well as the Shrine of Heru. The Secret of the Aittic Woods is undiscovered.  The Shrine of Heru is a lesser divinity of Heru, comparable to a Horror’s Tower, though it is also a Stronghold controlled by the Aittic Mysteries. The deep heart of the Aittic Woods, the Shrine of Heru is a wide and open structure of overgrown marble upon raised earth, making it a position that can be fortified against attack. The complex is relatively simple and hidden into the landscape, but the proper shrine has a great marble statue of Heru in her most human aspect, holding in her hands a great metal bolt that glimmers with silver and green light. This is a mithril arrow, and a sacred focus for the grounds, and said to be the arrow that Heru either pierced the heart of Idrian or Nogad with, depending on the story. At Heru's feat is a mystic hearthstone upon a stone brazier that pulsates with a font of power, and is used by sacred diviners to gaze into Heru's design. The shrine is attended by vestals and protected by huntresses, but access is only granted to initiates of the Aittic Mysteries. Even the great procession during the spring festival starts in Aitne and not here. Like other Shrines, it also protects a place of power represented in its sacred grounds that if corrupted or destroyed can empower a Horror. The Secret of the Shrine of Heru is undiscovered.  The Vestal is a Devotee of Heru, aligned with the Aittic Mysteries, residing in the Shrine of Heru. She is both Good and Ornassi. The Vestal of the current age is known by the name Pannoia. The Aittic Mysteries have no real solid leadership, and the Vestal herself is only recently initiated, but every Age there is a truly innocent soul that comes to the Shrine and is recognized for her holy nature, as someone who is deserving of the protection and embrace of the hearth. She is given the sacred task of stoking the great hearth before the statue of Heru for the rest of the age, until she is replaced with the next soul, whom she trains in her sacred arts, which involve the most secret arts of Aittic geomancy. The Vestal is always fair haired and skinned, though the details change with each iteration, only that she evokes exactly the image of a loved one in need of protection. She wears a simple coral colored stola, and often has marks of the touch of divinity about her, often manifest as motes of light. She wears a laurel wreath, and carries a metal stoker. The Vestal's Origin is that of Holy Maiden, while her Forte is ????? ????? and her Foible ????? ?????. She exhibits no sign of Corruption. The Vestal's Secret is undiscovered. The Vestal's Approaches are +3 Arcane, +2 Flashy, +2 Quick, +1 Careful, +1 Sneaky.  Nevarre is a medium sized city and Capital of the Vendalic Commonwealth, located at hex 20.25. Its Terrain is Urban Coast and its Stronghold aspect Conquered City. Nevarre is the largest of any Vendal settlement, and greatly expanded from the rather humble beginnings it had as an Ornassi colony built on mostly poor land. The Ornassi mostly built their homes into the cliffsides to protect against flooding and storms, but since the curse of the Arid Sea and the lack of such upon the western face of the Rockbridge Crossing, the Vendals have flourished as well in the basins below, building their wooden longhouses and workshops that add a slight pallor of smoke to the bustling city. While not in as good a position as Herapetra to become a center of trade, being on the western end of the Straits of Mortalia, Nevarre has earned a niche with a rich trading partnership with Pretonia, and extracting tolls for the passage back and forth by the rig and her thanes as a sign of tribute. The Nevarran Vendals claim to rule over the straits, a claim challenged by Herapetra, and they feud over such sovereignty. The city itself has several neighborhoods with their own champion and thane, but most of them swear oaths and geas of loyalty to the rig, making them functions of the most centralized part of the Commonwealth, and the armies of Nevarre often serve to protect the rest. The craftmanship in Nevarre is superb, even if the resources poor, making it a destination for artisan journeymen wishing to hone their craft. The Secret of Nevarre is undiscovered.  The Rig is a Notable of the Vendalic Commonwealth, and currently its Leader. residing in Nevarre. She is both Neutral and Vendal. The Rig of the current age is known by the name Camma. The Commonwealth is ruled by the greatest of its heroes, invested with the title of grand champion and named Rig of Vendalia. The current Rig earned her title not solely by martial prowess, but also political acumen and cunning, using the support of other champions, have have become her thanes through her use of enchantment and geas, and the assistance the Weaver’s witchcraft and advise and thus the support of the Nevarran Mysteries. There are some who resent her modernizing influence and asserting of a hegemony abroad as a violation of the principles of determination and freedom found at the heart of Vendalic society, but she tries to toe the line as best she can while also looking to assert finally true control and dominion over the straits, and perhaps further, succeeding where her supposed ancestor Gesetaia failed. The Rig is a tall and red-haired woman with fair skin and aristocratic features. She wears a viridian mantle and lays her hand on her sword hilt. She speaks with enchantment, and can influence the hearts of mortals. The Rig’s Origin is that of Heroic Politician, while her Forte is ????? ????? and her Foible ????? ?????. She exhibits no sign of Corruption. The Rig’s Secret is undiscovered. The Rig’s Approaches are +3 Clever, +2 Forceful, +2 Flashy, +1 Quick, +1 Arcane, +1 Careful.  The Weaver is a Notable of the Vendalic Commonwealth, and a devotee of Ragna, residing in Nevarre. She is both Chaotic and Vendal. The Weaver of the current age is known by the name Obalda. Unlike most of the other Vendalic notables, the Weaver is not a thane or champion, but rather a potent witch and adept of the Nevarran mysteries who rose to prominence alongside the current Rig, tying her political fortunes to this rising star and giving her advise and help. She is seen by some as a corrupting influence, but the Weaver is remarkably down-to-earth as a woman, and is actually quite popular among the common people of Nevarre for being available for her witch-cures and right-hand practice. Whatever her true motivations, they have yet to be revealed. The Weaver is a red-haired woman with a matronly build and wearing leathers and eschewing the usual tartan of other Vendals, wearing no mark of a clan. She dons facepaint even outside war, and wears a necklace of bone. She is obviously a witch, but less obviously can wield both hands of witchcraft with ease due to her Nevarran training. The Weaver’s Origin is that of Hill Witch, while her Forte is ????? ????? and her Foible ????? ?????. She exhibits no sign of Corruption. The Weaver’s Secret is undiscovered. The Weaver’s Approaches are +2 Arcane. +1 Sneaky, +1 Clever, and +1 Careful.  The Shrine of Ragna is a lesser divinity of Ragna, comparable to a Horror’s Tower, though it is also a Stronghold controlled by the Nevarran Mysteries. Amid apparently inaccessible cliffs overlooking the Straits of Mortalia, the shrine here is a small thing that hides hidden looms and rooms within the rock, which are kept completely dark, and the spinners and weavers learn their craft completely blind. The temple itself is lit by braziers, but overall it is a place hidden in shadows and difficult for any petitioner to penetrate. A great statue with inlaid obsidian of Ragna often eclipses either the True Sun or the False Moon as it crosses over the peaks that overlooks the valley, and her shadow is used as a divining tool by the moirai here. The shrine is attended by moirai and common weavers of the Nevarran Mysteries, and supposedly protected by the mara in addition to witchcraft. Access is given to any of those chosen by fate. Like other Shrines, it also protects a place of power represented in its sacred grounds that if corrupted or destroyed can empower a Horror. The Secret of the Shrine of Ragna is undiscovered.  The Moirai are Devotees of Ragna, aligned with the Nevarran Mysteries, residing in the Shrine of Ragna. They are all Chaotic but change culture based on which is dominant: The Spinner, the youngest, is a Vendal, the middle-aged Alloter is a Noddite, and the venerable Cutter is Cradish, though few know it. The Moirai give up their names when they take this sacred role, taking on only titles of Spinner, Alloter, and Cutter, though those that knew them before this life might call them by personal names. The Moirai are the only three true priestesses of Ragna, and the masters of the Nevarran Mysteries, who cultivate weavers beneath them to spread the works and realign fate to the wicked one’s design. They seem to work as one to outsiders, but in truth have very different mindsets and backgrounds. The Moirai keep the most sacred of the looms, somewhere hidden in the shrine, and from this look for snarls to heal, preserve, or unravel, and thus provide instructions to the weavers that are spread out across the world. The Spinner is a young Vendalic maiden with woad and kind eyes, the Allotter is a hardened Noddite woman with a harsh but protective cast, and the Cutter is a truly ancient woman with white hair and skin, and laughing eyes. They wear viridian robes, the Spinner wantonly in comparison to her naive appearance, the Alloter over armor, and the Cutter with a deep cowl and hood. The Moirai’s Origin is that of Holy Trine, while their Forte is ????? ????? and their Foible ????? ?????. They exhibit no sign of Corruption. The Moirai’s Secret is undiscovered. The Moirai’s Approaches are +3 Arcane, +2 Careful, +2 Sneaky, +1 Clever, +1 Flashy. A Hero is revealed upon the world!  The Genius is one of the nine Heroes of this Epoch. He is both Neutral and a Vendal. He is known by the name Perdix. The Genius is a young man born in Nevarre who learned the craft and trade of being an artisan, but chafed under the society he grew up in because of his natural gift of intellect. Vendalic stories have little and less of stories of men to look up to, and most are consigned to their future in a domestic life, but Perdix has wanted to see the world and learn everything there is upon it. He has looked instead to the culture heroes outside Vendalia, especially Peragos, the clever hero of Ornassi myth, but he wonders if he could exceed such feats. he doesn't disdain his people necessary, but looks upon them as "little" and small-minded at times, and in turn they view him as a bizarre iconoclast and poor husband material. Apparently uninterested in women unlike his fellows, he has dedicated himself entirely into becoming a polymath, learning every craft, art, and benefice that he has set himself too, and having a natural mastery of them all. Currently he is learning the craft of the shipwright, thinking about how one might advance to sail not the sea, but its reflection the sky. He has manifested artifice and thamaturgy uniquely and spontaneously, completely oblivious that his piles of notes and designs are totally miraculous and wondrous and simply do not work according to mundane craft. The Genius is a young and confident man wearing Westenfolk fashion as opposed to Vendalic, with strawberry hair and an unmistakable smirk. He caries a binder of notes, and is often scribbling in them absently without putting his eyes to them. The Genius's Origin is that of Iconoclastic Polymath, while his Forte is ????? ????? and his Foible ????? ?????. He exhibits no sign of Corruption. The Genius's Secret is undiscovered. The Genius's Approaches are +4 Clever, +3 Flashy, +2 Sneaky, +2 Arcane, +1 Careful, +1 Quick. In that very shrine, under the auspices of the Unraveler... The shadow crosses over the man as he stands at the edge of the rocks, looking up to the figure wrapped with webs and threads there that eclipses for a moment the light of the False Moon, the silvery light playing in the shadows upon his fair features. He found this place after having lost everything, and the journey was arduous, leaving his old home of Herapetra on a prison-ship to Aephamnu, escaping them to the mainland of Praxis where he had to work in a press gang, before finding himself at the mercy of pirates. Slowly, but surely, each trial brought him closer home, and even if the winds blew them and dashed them on the rocks of Sarnath, where he and the other pilgrims pondered their fate, he kept following the thread, even if unknowing ,tugging it until it brought him here. This now weaver was one of many called, and now he was given his task, though again he knew little. But he had to go back to the beginning, to start again. Divine Reaction: Nevarran Mysteries Arcanely Recruit Agent. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+3 7 Success with style. pre:Timori, a Weaver An Ornassi mortal. Origin: Fatebound Witch +3 Arcane, +2 Sneaky, +2 Clever The Weight of Destiny (Boost) Tricky Dick Nixon fucked around with this message at 23:06 on Apr 6, 2016 |
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Apr 6, 2016 23:02
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As the first years pass in Venthethal since the return of magic... The situation with the crystals becomes a little more worrying, as what were small growths are now large and obvious growths, and while they threaten the city little, and their warmth is almost welcome, it agitates Baldassare to see something he cannot control enter his little fiefdom, watching down from the tower wrapped in an ermine mantle as he has his scribe punch through the numbers. He worries his fingers over the bloodstone cap of his cane, which he favors especially heavily this day. His gout is getting worse, and the local witch has disappeared, thought taken by the Seltvar since she was so far from the town. That damnable foolish governor has traded life for peace, and he is fast growing to be far more than a nuisance. Tapping the cane to meet with each step, the industrialist nods to his scribe and begins to ask report. "Do we have the capital, friend? I need a garrison fed, and some miners warm in their bed, for the coming winter. It is to be a cold one." The scribe had a worried look on his face at the demand, shuffling through the papers. "The independent miners are not selling claims anymore, but they aren't seeming to get much from the rock either. We've tried to persuade them, but they will not sell the land and mines. Nor are they shipping out anything. It's very queer." "Obviously we have not been persuasive enough," Baldassare decided, considering the back of his hand before moving over to the hearth, which glowed with an unearthly light from the shattered crystals burning with their strangely cool and yet comforting heat. He grimaced, but came to the warmth nonetheless, despite his misgivings. "We have tools at our disposal, my good man. We simply need to be making better use of them." He rolled his hand over the brazier, letting the extremities get more life into them once more as he considered. He had broken a strike before, and he would break these miners, and keep that infernal governor at bay. He just needed more time for his connections to come through... "Advise captain Grigor to have his men armed and on patrol. Tell the citizens that it is for their security, with the disappearance of that hag and the threat of the dwarves and what not. Let's keep an eye on these miners. We cannot afford to have any challenge to our authority here. Not when we are so close." He straightened his back, and looked to his scribe for confirmation. The scribe simply nodded. "For the duke." Force Reaction: The Industrialist Carefully Recruit a Force. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+1 1 Tie. pre:A garrison of Vestorian Mercenaries A Westenfolk force. Origin: Sellswords Far from Home +2 Forceful, +1 Careful Deep in the crystal caverns, within the abode of the salt dwarves... A vicious wyrmspasm rocked the caves in a ripple outward, and curious looking one with the boilerplate head nearly lost his balance, as solidly built as he was. He rushed nonetheless as best his hodge-podge hermetic armor would allow him, as it creaked and groaned and whistled with the steam locked inside, and he came upon the ward boss, who overlooked the taskmasters at their work in the crystal mines below. The curious looking one called out, "Boss! Boss! It has happened again!" The urgency overrode the vagueness of his cry as the ward boss looked impassively on with scarlet lantern eyes. Their voices hissed and crackled over the oddly dissonant warping that came from their voices through the thaumaturgical machinery of the hermetic suits. "Have you come to report a reduction in productivity, Two-and-Ten?" "My thralls! They were all ANNIHILATED by this wretched blight, boss. You have done NOTHING and SOMETHING must be done." "Ah, so it is time for a re-evaluation. That is the loss of twelve thralls?" "Yes! Twelve, that is more than before. It is getting WORSE!" "This will count against your station, Two-and-Ten, or now reclassified, Null. As a Null," he continued in an almost mechanical way, but that was undercut by the sheer, greedy delight evinced in the sinister subtext of his words, as the curious looking one stumbled back, raising his hands, "you are offered no protections as you have no power. You are subject to the decisions of any that might rule you. I should like to become Six-and-Twenty, I have been Five long enough." The crystal capacitors charged with a glow as he closed upon the cowering "null", as the charge emitted energized the shackles he was now holding at hand. Faction Reaction: Seltvar Dominion Cleverly Recruit Agent. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+2 1 Failure. In an artisan's workshop, far from the north, in the sleepy town of Runsefels... The woodcarver continues through his work, silently carving every little detailed piece in his seemingly withered hands, as he creates piece by lifelike peace out of the living wood freshly cut from the nearby Inaba Forest of a truly ancient cheer, he works not under candle light, but the golden light of a crystal that hangs overhead in a wire bowl suspended by leather straps over the worktable, and as it lazily rocks back and forth, the pulsing light reveals in the shadows back and forth what appears to be the body of a child, but upon closer inspection it's very clear from the segmented limbs and the glossiness of their smooth skin that they are not a child, but a disturbingly life-like facsimile thereof. The woodcarver continues his work through the hours of the night, and for many nights after that, but close to near a year's work ended, all with the slowly fading light of that crystal. When the body was complete, he reviewed his great musty tome, and the instructions left behind the masters with his own annotations and notes, as he held the faded but still warm and potent crystal shard in his hand. To bring animation without the soul is a feat that few even trained wizards can do, but for the purposes of his intention, it is a necessary first preparation for the final ritual, and by this time he was very well practiced. Over the constructed boy, who looked very much like himself when he was much younger, he cut his hand with the crystal and let it drip upon the vessel. Then, pressing against the chest, he began the incantations, closing his eyes behind graying, bushy eyebrows, continuing as he had done perhaps half a dozen times before, knowing exactly the intonation and effects to put on to call out. This time, however, it seemed easier, almost too easy, and he could feel the surging and crackling of power all around him, opening his eyes to look down upon his work. Outside, the windows of the old woodcarver's house flickered behind the smoky glass, as the rest of the town was at rest, in these wee hours of the morning. He was shocked to find the life already erupting from his blood, into the substance. The alchemical treatments were burned away into a black residue that soon crystallized and merged with the wood of his stone table, as the wood became flesh, an impossible, magical transmutation as animate matter was created from the inanimate, marked by the sharp intake of breath by the boy as his chest filled in, his eyes opening, still glossy and doll-like, glass orbs that dryly rested in the sockets and seemed to see not the world. It was here the crystal faded, and with it the magic, and the woodcarver, torn as to whether he would pour his soul now that his power had begun to evaporate, eventually relinquished back, and the flesh became once again like so much wood. Once again, with everything he had trained for and scrapped together, spent years preparing for, it was simply not enough. Magic was returning, but it could not create the process. One more paintaking and treated vessel he would have to add to the pile, which he had left to dry and litter his corner, the torn parts of six previous attempts upon the ground. He turned away from his table, moving to where he kept his woodcutting axe at the side near the hearth, where it had heated up to be slightly uncomfortable in his fingers, but that bothered him little compared to the sting of failure, or the sight he was about to happen upon again, as he turned around and looked to see the boy, wooden and polished, lift in his seat and turn to look at him with those glassy eyes. He froze in place. It was inanimate matter still, but it moved. And the look fo terror that soon fell upon its face was terribly lifelike, almost as terrifying as the cry of, "Please, sir, do not murder me!" He could not believe it. A homunculus had not been created in ages, not even an incomplete one, despite the knowledge being passed down for so long. He had unlocked a crucial step in the path to simulacrum, even if incomplete, and that gave him a joyous smile that only caused the poor boy to flinch more. Keeping the axe in hand but dropping it from the threatening stance, the woodcarver approached the child with a kindly smile that did not reach his eyes. "Don't worry, I have such great things to show you, my son..." This power is like that of the Gods. I have made life as the Beautiful did. Force Reaction: An Unknown Covenant Arcanely Recruit an Agent. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+4 6 pre:Lucci, a Homunculus A magical being. Origin: Wooden Construct +2 Sneaky, +1 Quick, +2 Careful The First Homunculus (Boost) Tricky Dick Nixon fucked around with this message at 09:59 on Apr 7, 2016 |
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Apr 7, 2016 08:02
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Your create advantage action succeeds with style, giving your agent two free invokes with the ragged and vicious blade. Deep in the labyrinth of Abynthu, under the surface of Krete… It only takes a single one of the beholder’s eye beams to hold the wretched troglodyte in place, pulling him up like he was a puppet held by strings, choking upon the forces of his own body betraying him, and the mental projections of the great eye tyrant, which floated before him in the terrible smoky and black labyrinth. It did not bother to communicate its desires, after this one had returned from its task both without what it had been sent for, and with the rest of the other troglodytes having been run down… by what? Mortals had not walked Krete for many years. So it stripped the very mind from the troglodyte. This is not a figurative statement. The beholder, with surgical and sterile precision, without any true blood splatter but still stomach-churning, stripped and reduced the creature to its composite organs and parts as its eyes moved and did its work, while its main eye returned to the inscriptions upon the wall. They all moved independently, stripping out projections and memories from the crude reptile brain, before finally annihilating it with the disintegration ray of another. Another eye centered on another of the worshiping troglodytes, dominating its mind in a moment and calling it forward. The eye tyrant wrote its programming very carefully upon the mutant troglodyte who looked with a slack jaw and five mismatched eyes into the ray that dissolved the irises and sclera into an inky pale yellow, which remained even as the eye turned back to the inscriptions before, and the beholder, done with this matter apparently, floated up into one of the many vertical shafts it had constructed in the labyrinth, ascending the floors to some other part of its self-appointed domain. The zombie-like troglodyte turned back and shambled to its assigned task, while the others looked on with insane reverence, as if it had been blessed by the gods itself. It only knew one thing: To capture the human that dared interfere. Divine Reaction: Kretan Troglodytes Weirdly Recruit Agent. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+2 1 Tie. pre:A slave of the Eye Tyrant. A lizardfolk beast. Origin: Dominated Troglodyte +2 Quick, +1 Sneaky Somewhere else entirely, in the island haven of Dhyamandsai… The mariner thought that perhaps this far in the south, romance was dead. The men and women here seemed to care little for anything but coin, vice, and their own hides. He had grown up on the coasts of Westenfal, of proud Albigensian stock, before joining a merchant ship heading from Manse to Herapetra to see the world. Soon enough, he had his own ship, and his own crew, and found himself on the edge of this godforsaken place. He looked forward at the haze of lightning, smoke, and ash that hung over the lost lands, that Terra Incognita, and steeled himself by the honor of his quest. She was not a beautiful woman, but by the marks of her imperfections he saw through to her silver heart, so noble and full of grace. She hid it well under her bristles and exterior, and the sleek line of that eye-patch, but she was perfectly tender when he came to her under the Mad Moon, feeling a bit mad himself and filled with some kind of restless emotion he could not shake. She humored him at first, and while he knew well that she was only using him at first, when they shared that first kiss, he was entirely sure that it was real. For her, he would go to the ends of the earth, as his mission of courtly love, to prove himself. Most of his crew had abandoned the mission when he told them, but many had given him their loyalty for so long that they would see it to the end. With a skeleton crew, a hardy galleon won from a pirate at skull-dice in Cyria, and nothing but the winds of his affection to carry him through, he promised her that he would bring her something that no man could, and the opportunity of the truth of what lay beyond that veil, perhaps that treasure buried underneath, was all he could think about. The privateer that was the subject of his affections could only think of how glad she was that he was sailing off, never to be seen again, after her little challenge. Force Reaction: The Privateer Flashily Recruit Agent. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+2 3 Success. pre:Torvel, the Mariner A Westenfolk mortal. Origin: Lovesick Sailor +2 Flashy, +1 Quick Tricky Dick Nixon fucked around with this message at 11:33 on Apr 7, 2016 |
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Apr 7, 2016 08:38
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 I know you are still working on the flavor for your actions UnCO3 so I wrote these in mind of what you already told me, I will calculate the items you had queued up for upkeep normally so no rush but I wanted to finish things tonight if possible. In the dovecote of the cathedral canticle, in Bytcina... Even burdened by her heavy ceremonial dress, Ruxandra, the chorister, all but races to escape them below. The leering eyes, the whispers as to her habits, the comments at her expensve over callowness, youth, wasted talent, or worse. What was once a sanctuary in the choir is not a nightmare maze that she has to navigate, and she does, but the pure belief she had in the tradition has begun to break, and she simply wants an escape. She sighed deeply, striding across the cold stone of the dovecote to one of the alcoves where the doves rested and nestled, and they did not srhink from her touch, her presence and soul purified of many of the spiritual ailments that can agitate beasts in one’s presence, such as the mad do. She carefully cradled one of the birds in her hand, smiling softly to herself as she did. “Would that I had wings like you, little one, but if I did…” She looked up to the domed top and lattices. They were kept here and occasional let forth for messages and otherwise, but it was an illusory freedom. They always came back. “Would I truly be able to reach the sky, little one?’ Carefully holding the dove to her breast as she climbed up the stone ladder to the top, she sat gingerly at the edge there overlooking the temple city, and pushed open one of the lattices. She held out the bird carefully, seeing if it would fly off, but instead it remained perched there upon her hand. She then began to sing sweetly to it, as if to compel its spirit forward. She only had reached the first bar when a screaming came across the sky, an ornerous metallic lick that shattered the sky and caused the dove to flutter off in a start, and the entire dovecot to erupt into momentary chaos before. Ruxandra’s heart stopped, as she held her hand near her chest, closing her eyes. For people that were of the sky, it seemed so far away, and this sound, it seemed from a place even further away. Far away from here. Force Reaction: The Chorister Flashily Creates Advantage. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+1 -1 Failure. Instead of having nothing happen, I’m going to create the Doubt is the Seed of Ruin aspect for the Chorister, and UnCO3 will get a free invoke on it. At the winter camp of the hetmanate hosted in the holy city of Qalath… A scout rides out on his warcat as the sound ripples out over even this far, heard as a screaming in the sky, when the devotees of great Živa could provide no explanation that could satisfy the Hetman. He sent a rider to follow the source of thunder, using the old tracking skill long in his line. Rayko was one of several kazaky who jumped for their warcat steeds at the hetman’s order, but he was the swiftest, and broke away from the pack immediately, the others called back once it was clear the winds were with this one. Rayko, this swiftest of kazaks, headed for the canticle city to the north of the Westron Expanse, on his way to the Cold Bone, to track down by the people and the land itself the source of this terrific cry. A dragon? A god? Or something else? Whatever it was, bogatyrs would come wide, and the kazak sought to head it off at the pass and bring back word to his master as soon as he could. Faction Reaction: Marach Host Quickly Recruits Agent. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+3 3 Success. pre:Rayko, a Scout A Marach mortal. Origin: Eager Kazak +3 Quick, +2 Forceful Even farther away, a man travels the roads down from the forest, crossing from Albigenses to Vendalia… Here at the edge of the Rockbridge Crossing, the once bountiful trees are still present, providing a boundary marker, along with the great and often fearsome totem poles rected by the Vendals, between the land of the Westenfolk and the land of the redfolk. A man who has traveled quite far with little but the tales he tells to children who see the bard passing by with his little flute and motley wear, and a feather in his cap. He has traveled long and is quite dirtied from the trip, and quite happy to see the smoking longhouses of the Vendals over the hill as he approaches, descneding down among them. Bards are always welcome if he have a tale and a little joy to share, no matter where they go. They can travel essentially anonymously and across nearly every cultural line this way, and this young man, let’s call him Flycatcher, as they tend to call themselves by the names of birds, is all too happy to sip from their broth and rest his feet. Imagine his surprise as he hears a tune that he has never heard before, by a passing Vendal woman who has the smell of the sea and salt about her, and he joins her humming a bit with the flute, but finds he cannot find the notes, and she laughs a bit at his attempt, interrupting her own. “Ah, you must excuse me, I thought I have heard of all the tales and songs upon this earth, but this one eludes me, fair one. Can you recall where you heard it?” She rubbed her chin for a moment at that, thinking. “Just sailed across the straits with Magnian salt. Heard it in the streets of the city.” There’s only one city in Vendalia, so it’s obvious immediately she means Navarre. “The minstrel there said it was about John o’ the Lyre. Some Ornassi hero no doubt, I’d never heard of him.” “Is that so? It sounds like a tale to know,” the bard says, and lets her go on her way, testing the notes again with his flute. Divine Reaction: An Unknown College Sneakily Recruits Agent. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+3 3 Success. pre:Flycatcher, a Bard A Cradish mortal. Origin: Motley Storyteller +3 Sneaky, +3 Careful
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Apr 7, 2016 09:27
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 All entries should be updated on the spreadsheets, save some from pre-game prompts I'm still getting around to. All icons should be on the board and movable. All Eyes have been laid and other such things adjusted for. pre:PROPHECY: 04 | TERROR: 00 MAEN: Doom 00 | Aberrance 03 | Refresh 02 | Occult 13 | Imprisoned JONES: Doom 01 | Aberrance 05 | Refresh 04 | Occult 07 | Stirring HADREMOR: Doom 00 | Aberrance 04 | Refresh 03 | Occult 10 | Dormant WRATH: Doom 00 | Aberrance 03 | Refresh 02 | Occult 13 | Imprisoned BEREAVED: Doom 00 | Aberrance 05 | Refresh 04 | Occult 07 | Stirring ZARKAI: Doom 00 | Aberrance 03 | Refresh 03 | Occult 10 | Dormant AULUUDH: Doom 00 | Aberrance 04 | Refresh 03 | Occult 10 | Dormant MINISTRY: Doom 00 | Aberrance 03 | Refresh 03 | Occult 10 | Dormant MAR'ARR: Doom 01 | Aberrance 04 | Refresh 03 | Occult 10 | Dormant LOZETH: Doom 00 | Aberrance 03 | Refresh 02 | Occult 13 | Imprisoned TRAITOR: Doom 01 | Aberrance 02 | Refresh 02 | Occult 13 | Imprisoned TIGN: Doom 00 | Aberrance 02 | Refresh 02 | Occult 13 | Imprisoned AHIRAM: Doom 01 | Aberrance 04 | Refresh 04 | Occult 07 | Stirring  Make your movements, and if discovering a new hex, a roll for the discovery. The Difficulty is always base +2. -1 if you already have Eyes on the hex, as if by a Tower. -1 if your explorer is native to this land (read: their People is the dominant People of the local faction). +1 if the terrain would be considered difficult (broken lands, caverns, mountains, etc.), +2 if the terrain would be considered impassable (lava, active volcano, solid rock, etc.). While spies do not have approaches, they can make a roll at +0 when discovering new hexes. The aspect you discover can be a small settlement, a terrain feature, or some other interesting quality. What it cannot be is an artifact, a place of power, a stronghold, or the like. It -could- be a new expression of an existing culture or faction. This is your chance to get some worldbuilding in yourself, so feel free to bounce ideas, or go hog wild.
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Apr 7, 2016 12:13
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  The Lurker Beneath, the Third King of the Cold Dark, the Great Old, He who takes minds freely, the Star-Seeker Free Invoke: Additional Workforce (Heralds of the Deepest Kingdom) Free Invoke: Hall of Visions (2) (Lesser Horror, Tower, 36:30) Boost: Famous Explorers (Heralds of the Deepest Kingdom) It's time... soon, they will awaken, and then I can begin in earnest. But first.. "Merrow, you will go forth and head to the southeast. Head for Ngotlelzh. It is time we reclaim it for ourselves. Look for any good defensive positions on your way... we might need them soon. And now that that's done... "Ileth! Heed your lord and masters call! You have slept for far too long, ever wanting. Now, it is time to rise. Rise, my most favored servants! Let us reclaim what is mine, and you will find yourself never wanting. I place before you your first task - clear this city of rubble and corpses. Restore it to it's full glory, and it's many facilities will carry our conquest to victory. I have prepared many, many contingencies such as these to fall back on.. Begin with the Hall of Visions - war is won with knowledge, and it's capabilities will bring us such. The thralls that have awoken you will assist you in this task. Now, go! Prepare this city for my waking, and you will be rewarded... in time." As my agent action, I will be moving Merrow #1 from hex U:36.30 to hex U:38.31, to Leerily discover the hex and look for defensible locations. Discovering hex U:38.31: 4dF+3 1 Failure, but it's an agent so no mysteries. As my cult action, in hex U:36.30, the Heralds of the Deepest Kingdom will Leerily Create an Advantage by assisting the Sunken Ones in reactivating the Hall of Visions. Leerily Create Advantage: 4dF+3 3 Success, my Cult will be an Additional Workforce and assist the Sunken Ones. I activate my Servitors using the Boost: Psionic Pool. Using them for my horror action, in hex U:36.30, the Sunken Ones will Leerily Create a Lesser Horror (Tower, the Hall of Visions). Naturally, this uses 1 Aberrance. Leerily Creating a Lesser Horror - Tower: 4dF+3 3 Success with Style, a Tower is created and I gain 2 invokes of Hall of Visions. Yami Fenrir fucked around with this message at 14:42 on Apr 7, 2016 |
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Apr 7, 2016 13:20
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Zarkai Last and Greatest Tyrant, Champion of Praxis, Eater of Monkeys Sitting on the protruding branch of a tree, back resting against the trunk, Climbs-the-Canopies was disappointed not to find the peace this activity usually brought her. She always felt at peace up in the trees, away from her earthly troubles and the cursed eggs she was supposed to constantly be watching. She had developped, over the years, an intense dislike for her role of guardian that she was expected to follow; and while she was allowed to join raids on occasion, after that brief spike of adrenaline it was back to the nests with her. She would have switched to male many seasons ago if there weren't always bigger, stronger females in her way, also waiting to switch. The tribe would not allow her to compromise its number of breeding pairs just so she could do as she pleased, so she had had no choice but to wait. And now, on top of everything else, the tribe was split in the middle of a deadly jungle and she was stuck here with the eggs. At least, when she had proposed that she should go up a tree to act as a lookout, no one had raised an objection, even though it was clear that she was doing this for her own benefit and not to be of any help. There was a sense of futility hanging in the camp; they were too few to actually provide any protection for the eggs, and once any one of the many, many predators inhabiting those jungles would notice, they would be massacred. A series of movements caught her eye, pushing away those dreary thoughts momentarily. She couldn't actually see much in the thick canopy of the jungle, but she still couldn't miss the movement that was everywhere: a pack of wolf-sized lizards, with huge many-toothed mouths, scattered a little ways beyond her tree; an immense python slowly slithered not far from them; another lizard, even bigger than the pack hunters, sporting huge bulging eyes, a curled tail and a bright orange coloration, made its way a couple of trees away from her. More and more animals seemed to move with unerring precision towards the lizardfolk camp. And in the middle of all of them... "Scale-birds! The same ones that got Walks-among-the-Stones!" Climbs-the-Canopy descended, feeling a sense of dread settle in her heart. ------------------ "Protect the eggs to your last breath!" shouted the biggest female in the camp, teeth gritted and spear pointed at the ever-growing mass of scales and teeth and claws. The egg-guardians had formed a patethically flimsy perimeter around the nests, and each and every one of them their instincts to protect the eggs and their survival instincts telling them to flee. Yet, the animal horde did not advance, and seemed content with standing around them, hissing and growling. "The last time animals acted this unnaturally, we lost our chieftain." thought Climbs grimly. Than a sound, great and terrible, that could not be defined a voice even by the loose standards of the lizardfolk, roared through the clearing, shaking the beastmen to the bone; and yet it carried meaning that they could understand on an instictual level. If we wanted to eat you, would be dead ten times over by now, hatchlings. Every breath you take from now on is a gift from the Champion of Praxis. The lizardmen gripped their spears tighter. This was an unknown enemy, one they did not know how to react to. The one that had commanded her earlier spoke again. "Who and what are you, creature? What do you want from us?" You come into our city, expecting to raid it and steal from it like the jackals you are, and expect us to take no revenge? Do you think us corpses, to loot and devour as you please? Panicked whispers go through the defensive lines. A Tyrant! They had awoken a Tyrant! "W-we did not know! We didn't mean to-" But you did, hatchling. Yet our presence has not been felt in some time in Praxis, and we have uses for egg-guardians; you might still save yourselves. You will serve us, hatchlings. We have no reason not to feed you to our more loyal servants, otherwise. It took one look at the slavering army of animals in front of them to convince the egg-guardians to throw their spears down and show their throats in a gesture of submission. ---------------------------------------------- quote:As an Horror Action, Zarkai will use his Compsos aspect supported by his free invocation of his harbinger aspect Blood of the Tyrant to Dreadfully create a cult at difficulty +0: It is good that you understand your place, hatchlings. We want one of you to serve us immediately. Your old chieftain has escaped our compsos, and we want him brought to us. No one immediately volunteered. Surrendering to what was clearly a superior opponent was one thing, but to go into this forsaken jungle to find a lizardman? That maybe was already dead? "I will serve you, Champion of Praxis." A smallish lizardwoman took a step forward. All animals' eyes focused on her. What are you called, hatchling? "Climbs-the-Canopy, Champion" Why do you want to serve us so, Climbs-the-Canopy? The beastman did not know how to respond to this. The truth, hatchling. We will taste it if you lie to us. "...I do not wish to guard eggs anymore, Champion. If serving you directly will get me away from these nests, I will." A gravelly sound was heard, like gravel being scratched by claws. Some part of Climbs interpreted it as laughter. Very well, Climbs-the-Canopy. We have uses for warrior-stalkers as well. As long as you serve us faithfully, be sure that you shall guard no eggs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- quote:Cult Action: The Nest Guard will Restlessly recruit an Agent at difficulty +1. paradoxGentleman fucked around with this message at 21:28 on Apr 7, 2016 |
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Apr 7, 2016 18:00
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The Ministry of Reality There isn't anyone I can move so I'll go straight to the action phase =Minutes of the second meeting of the comitee to clean up Sarnath= The office was busy, it had been at least two or maybe three weeks since the initial actions were taken against the people or Sarnath and now the Ministry had been moving to long term activities. In general there are three things that Black-Hats are assigned to do in any long term infiltration; report, sabotage and 'talent scout'. In the Ministry a 'candidate' was a very special (and in a certain point of view, very unlucky) individual who has the right qualities that the Ministry looks for in a mortal agent. In that either they are so incredibly venal and greedy that they would sell their own mother for a sack of gold, a person who is so suspectable to outside influences that the Ministry could just slip right in or is a person in possession of a secret that would be the end of that person's career, or in certain cases their life of anyone were to find out. And the Black-Hats know how to dig. And in the process of digging had turned up quite a few likely 'candidates', the Antarchy was fertile ground for the kind of self serving, double dealing, backstabbing bastards that are the corner stone of any decaying court, and it was full of people who were for want of a better word trapped in a gilded cage with knives in the dark. Or words like knives in the day, and it was going to be a very bad day for Vorn Abbylan because he was chosen to be the first recruit. - Upper Waethai, Living Quarters Vorn was an ambitious and quiet worker in a comfortable position in a mostly stable society. This would have suited Vorn fine except he was beginning to realize that the problem with a society of immortals is that you cannot wait until someone dies of natural causes before you get their position and this had chafed with Vorn for quite a while as it seemed that after he became the keeper of the archives, that was it this was going to be his lot until the quiet eventually claimed him. He entered his room, he washed his face in a basin and turned. There were three men in his room, they were wearing unusual monochromatic clothing, and no faces whatsoever. Words like 'Guards!' Or 'What is this!?' Or even a scream of terror martialed in his mouth and got stuck in the door. "Vorn Soldax Abbylan, age 300, currently holding the position of archivist in Waethai and advisor to the Sage. Today is your lucky day.' Droned the one on the middle in tones of a funeral bell. He couldn't muster the wits to speak. "For we have found you before the agents of The Sage had discovered your, unfortunate treachery." His compatriot undid a briefcase and very carefully laid some letters out on the table. His letters. Given in secret to trusted couriers how did- "An assassination plot, with the growing unrest in Waethai as an excuse to unseat the current ruling power player. How droll and how lucky that human dissidents had gotten to your men before you would try to carry it out. It would have ended in your banishment at best." "And" the being was staring at Vorn with the eyes it did not have and all the words had just vanished under that faceless nothing. "The worst might just catch up with you, if you will not, follow orders." And the night took him. --- The Ministry through it's earlier invoked Black-Hat servitors will Subtly Recruit an Agent in Waethai by the name of Vorn. Difficulty +1, no aspects invoked. 4dF+3 = 3 A plain common garden success pre:Vorn, an Archivist A minor Sarnathqar noble. Origin: Treacherous Advisor +3 Subtle +2 Uncanny Boost: A wealth of knowledge. Agent Vorn Abbylan It was late night in the archives of Waethai and Vorn was busy at work. No one paid him any mind, he was the archivist after all this place and it's knowledge were his responsibility, and the fact that two assisstants had come was no mystery the recent troubles in the lower quarters had ensured that a lot of Sarnathqar were carrying weapons on their person, or traveling in groups. They hadn't been so bold as to try anything in this most serene of cities but you know how humans are, it may only be a matter of time. A closer inspection however reveals an elf in quiet anxiety. Simply put Vorn was unsure what exactly he was looking for or why he was looking for it, only that his 'assisstants' would be helping him find it. Some kind of damnable artifact that his new employers were very interested in and right now he wasn't in a position to argue, and felt no pressing need to either. As he burned the tallow and slowly made his way through the older records with his 'helpers' fetching and carrying, something began to take shape. --- Agent Vorn investigates the location of the First Life's first artifact hidden in Sarnath by going through the archives in Waethai. An Overcome action in other words. He uses a Subtle +3 approach, and expends his A wealth of knowledge boost for an additional +2, for +5 in total against Difficulty +3 4dF+5 = 4 A success! And I am really glad I used that boost out of the gate. TheNabster fucked around with this message at 12:50 on Apr 16, 2016 |
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Apr 7, 2016 18:48
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Olufemi, Her Painter Owned and owed. Olufemi raged in the privacy of his home, taking several pieces of cutlery and slamming them against the wall, relishing the sound of breaking glass as it reminded him of the breaking mirrors. "That fat, repulsive slug! That unworthy slime! Flesh peddler! He thinks he can come here and threaten me with base gold? What do I care for it? I serve money no longer. I serve only Maen. He can come and follow me west to go look for his money. Or maybe we will kill him first! Let him drown in his blood! Make Pashen that much cleaner for Her arrival!" Glasan was calmly standing in the doorway. "I think this is good news, young sir. It is in fact an opportunity we cannot miss." Olufemi stopped mid-throw and looked at the older man like he'd gone mad. "What? What are you talking about? He's trying to turn me into one of his political tools! My father told me about what he gets up to." "Your father cared about things like aristorcracy and bloodlines. And I know. That means he thinks you're weak and harmless. Which is exactly what we want him to think. Let him think you his puppet. He'll let his guard down, and then... we'll make him bow to Her." "He's not worthy!" Olufemi raged, throwing the plate on the floor. "What does he care for love or art? All he craves is filthy coin!" "And in that he is a part of Pashen, young sir. If we wish to have Pashen made into a place worthy to receive Her, we will have to have people like Isasvar kneel to Her. If we are to end slavery of humans here, no better place to start than him." "But if we kill him...." "We will not solve anything. Your debts will go to his heir, who may be worse. And if you blow them off, they're likely to try to make an example out of you. You will not be able to find the ones ot break the seals if they drag you back here in chains, young sir." Olufemi fell dramatically on a seat. "But if I follow him, how can I go and search for it?" Glasan grinned. "Oh, you can have your trusty majordomo handle most things, dear sir." he chuckled. "Trust me, Isavar will not enjoy it. He taught me to kneel, and I shall return to the favor to him. But we should probably have you deal with this seat auction thing first." "But where will I get the money? More debts? Further in his pocket?" The Majordomo shrugged. "If needed, sir, if needed. Once we own him, it doesn't matter what you owe him. But I have another idea. But please, you get preparations for travel underway. I have an idea to deal with the money." Uncannily Recruit an Agent VS Dif 0: 4dF+2 5 Make an Agent. Glasan, the Majordomo, a Pashen Mortal. Success with Style, give him 3 approaches. Uncanny +2, Dreadful +2, Awful +1. He gets the boost 'Acting in his Name'[/i] Disciples of the Tenth Benefice "We should do what?" The sculptor, a man of some musculature, his hair done in beautiful colours looked offended. "Are you joking?" Glasan didn't back down. "I am extremely serious. Our cause needs money. And your art will make that money. You'll make art, sell art, do whatever it takes. But bring the money to us." The artist looked offended. "I am an artist! Not a hand for hire! I will not befould my art by..." Glasan pulled at the colourful hair and slammed him down, suddenly getting everyone's attention. "Let me remind you of something here, young sir." he said. "We are not a social club. We are not a little academy. We serve Maen. Now, I know you are not very familiar with service, I know. But you do not want me to teach you, as I have been taught. I would never seek to turn an artist into some kind of spineless obedient worm. Make the art that your heart desires! But even if it breaks your heart, for Maen's sake, you. will. sell it." Uncannily Create an advantage 'Artfully made Coin' Vs Df ?: 4dF+2 0 Well, that's a horrible roll.
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Apr 8, 2016 00:16
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Ahiram The Man Of Iron and Bronze, He Who Stared Death In The Face, That Which Knows No Limits, The Longing For Perfection, The Unbridled Ambition, The Spiked Freak "Adamantite..." As the Man of Iron and Bronze put his hand down on the flawless metal floor, his eyes shone with a wild, joyful ecstasy. There it was, the culmination of so many things: the madness of his father, the ruination of a legacy, the very embodiment of material perfection! And perhaps more. At this wondrous sight, Ahiram could not help but chuckle. "I've fought off Death and escaped from Hell but nothing I've seen compares to this. Not even the shine of the mortal soul..." He tapped his knuckles on the adamantite floor, sending off a deep and eerie echo. "Some day I will crack you open. As soon as I have the tools. But for now, I must take my leave..." As he ascended from the mines, Ahiram cast only a single glance at his father's withered, old bones. --- Shortly afterwards, Ahiram stepped out onto the highest balcony in the entire fortress. It faced out to the northwest, giving a terrific view of the Arid Sea. But this morning the view was much more splendid than that thanks to the Eyes unseen. Outwards, beyond the hills and the horizon, the world was bustling with activity and Ahiram was already staring right into it. And what he saw was beautiful. "My my my my my... What an interesting set of people," he said as he looked northwards towards Nevarre. "There is a bright future for them, especially that one. It will be a little bit tricky to integrate the Vendals into my plans, but it would be such a waste not to." Then he turned his gaze a little bit more eastward, to the Temple of Ragna. "The witches will need to be a key part of my plan. If we are to actually challenge the Divine order of things, they may be a source of potential allies. Or, at the very least, a useful tool against the others." Ahiram turned eastward again, so that he faced the direction of Herapetra. His gaze stopped a bit short of the city itself. "You are out of my reach, for now. In due time I shall return, and then I shall see what they have done to you. I can only help but wonder if your stars will shine as brightly as Nevarre's..." And then he turned towards the south. He stared quite intently at the distant image of the Temple of Heru. "And you... hold something quite important. There, in that forest too sacred. There, in that temple too forbidden. And there, in those hands too holy! That arrow. That which can pierce the heart of a God. That which can be a key, which can unlock...!" Ahiram gestures wildly with his hands as he struggles to word the image that fills his mind. "...Perfection." He stared at nothing for a moment, as he got lost in that idea. Then he snaps back, and throws arms up into the air. "Oh, how much I want to just march in there and take it. Just smash, right now, through the barrier that holds me back!" ------- A strange, silver box appeared on the counter in a artisan's guild shop in Nevarre. Exactly where from, no one knew. The master craftman of the shop, a man by the name of Brennos, asked around and took the customary set of steps to see if someone had lost it, but nothing came up. So he kept it. It seemed like a pretty nice little box, and might even contain valuable jewelry or trinkets. He would just need to get through the lock. Brennos did just that later that evening. Inside, he found two items: a flat, bracelet-sized ring, and a gauntlet. Both of these were stood out, even at a glance, as masterful pieces of metallic craftsmanship. So much, in fact, that for a moment Brennos's own reflection seemed unworthy of appearing on such a piece. He could not help but suddenly think about how much he still had left to learn, despite being considered a respected master of his craft. As he inspected the pieces and wondered where they might have come from, he noticed that the gauntlet seemed about the right size for his hand. Actually, it even seemed like it was just the right size. Upon noticing this, Brennos could not help but try it on. It was nothing like he had work ever before. Or built. Ordinarily, a metal glove like this, even with the best of fit, would limit your movement to some degree. But here there was almost none at all, despite the wright and heftiness of the thing. Then, with the gauntlet still on his hand, Brennos picked up the large ring. About the size of a large bracelet, the flat object featured several rings of letters that went all the way around its front side. They contained the complete Ornassi alphabet, and if you gripped and pulled them, could be rotated around the device in opposite directions. As they rotated, other parts moved around in a deliberate pattern. "What could this even be..." Brennos wondered around, as his imagination and fascination sparked. At first, he struggled with the puzzle. But as he spent more and more time with it, his gauntleted hand found it more and more natural to work with the device. A while later, he got it to a state where it showed a clear message. FRONT DOOR. LEAVE. TURN RIGHT. STRAIGHT UNTIL FOUNTAIN. RIGHT. UPHILL. CROSS BRIDGE. TURN LEFT... The words went on for a while, spelling out instructions to somewhere. "Is this... is this from here?" Brennos rubbed his tired eyes. The feeling of the gauntlet's cold metal on his face woke him up a little bit and shook him out of the haze he had been in. "How late is it, even?" He looked outside, and was struck by how dark and late it had gotten. He had spent the entire evening and part of the night working on this thing. And for what? "I really should get to bed," he murmured. "I shouldn't have stayed up this late..." And yet, he looked back down at the message. It seemed to look back at him, expectantly. --- "...Forward towards the cliff. Look around." Holding the device with the gauntlet, Brennos read off the last set of instructions. They had brought him to the top of the city's cliffs. All around were old, Ornassi buildings, which felt appropriate considering the device's lettering. But what was he brought here to see? Brennos shivered with both coldness and anticipation. "Ah, I see you were able to work it out," a cold voice called out from the shadows. "WHO ARE-!" Brennos shouted, getting half a sentence out before noticing a multitude of sharp, metallic glints in the darkness. He tried to take a step backwards, but fell onto his bottom. "Shhhhhhhh.." The shadowy man put a finger up to his mouth. His hand looked much like the gauntlet on Brenno's own. "Now is not the time to be shouting. I take it you like my gift?" "So it was you! You're...!" Brennos could not think of much to say. "Ahiram," the figure answered. He stepped forward out of the shadows, and his metallic form became clearly visible. "Pleased to meet your acquaintance." "...!" Brennos struggled speechlessly as he saw what was in front of him. It was like seeing an armored warrior like none other -- not showing a single bit of skin anywhere whatsoever. But even more than that, the metal didn't look like any piece of armor he had ever seen, either. And the movements were completely natural. It was not like just seeing a man completely covered in metal, but instead an embodiment of it! A being of pure metal and craft! Could this really be...? Brennos jumped to his feet and took a step back. He had regained his composure slightly but still had no idea what to do or what to make of it. Looking for guidance, he glanced upwards at the night sky. Up there, in the sea of celestial beauty, it is said that there is a Guardian Star for every single person that protects and guides them in times of need. His was not there. ------- Movement: Ahiram moves to Nevarre (O:20.25) Horror Action: Ahiram Dreadfully recruits an Agent. 2dF+1 = -1 vs Difficulty +1 Invoking free harbinger aspect: The Stars That Fade From The Sky for +2 to increase the roll to +1 and Tie. This should generate a Mystery. Brennos, my Apprentice Origin: Veteran Artisan Vendal Dreadful +1, Uncanny +2 Takanago fucked around with this message at 07:09 on Apr 8, 2016 |
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Apr 8, 2016 06:45
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 Horror: Skellington Jones Far to the North, a bolt from the bone-white sky screeches down low over the snow. Ice shatters and bubbles beneath it. It hits a tree, and plows through in a hail of burning sap and splinters. It hits a rocky outcropping, and blasts it to crackling pieces. It soars upwards and rams straight into a mountaintop… and ricochets off in a different direction. Towards a distant city. Bytcina, as he would later learn, a city of song and sky. ~~~~~~~~~~ Deep Backstage, two black-gloved hands opened up a manila folder: code:~~~~~~~~~~ Once upon a time, there was a little girl of the grassfolk who dearly wished to become a chorister, one who sung the soul of their people. What mattered was not the prestige, for in truth they were looked upon with doubt and suspicion, but the simple joy of singing, and being among like-minded people who also loved song with all their hearts. There was just one problem. The child was cursed. The Divine must hate her, or her parents, or her ancestors, people whispered. The punishment? A voice rougher than a river of grit, than a giant grinding their teeth, than bark on the most ancient trees. She was given a voice wholly inappropriate for a normal person, let alone a chorister. So she was set apart by the Divine. By her peers. By all the adults. By everyone she ever met. Clearly one of the gods did not want her to sing, and who was anyone else to interfere? Her dream was shattered. The children were vicious, yes. You? Chorister? Ha! Curse-child, dog-child! Die! Throw yourself in the marsh and drown. Do it! Every sound you make is a sin! But as she grew she learnt the hard way that the quintessential Marach stoicism is a wonderful veil for the steely contempt of adults. You were never meant to be a chorister. You could never command a Rada. The warcats would never follow a voice so unholy. Ignore the other children, but accept your lot. Do not cry, child; crying is unseemly. So she stopped speaking. If she never spoke, they could never say she had an ugly voice. Yeah, congrats if you guessed that that's bullshit. They still hated her, they still beat her down, that still hosed her up inside. People don't just stop when you surrender. I should know... Anyway. She could never hope to achieve anything among the grassfolk, yet she remained, still hoping that if she was dutiful enough, the mockery would cease. She eventually became nothing more than a maid at an inn near the canticle-city, Bytcina, but her reputation followed her with the nomads, and that hateful laughter would not die. Still, she stayed silent. But one day, at work at the inn, she came across a thin man who said to her... ~~~~~~~~~~ “I like your voice.” Ruta looked at the stranger with bewildered eyes and gave a terse grunt of confusion. Not that this hadn't happened before, but she'd quickly learnt that it was a trap. What gave her pause this time was the timbre of his voice – rougher than anything she could think of, maybe even her own. The people beside him even mock-covered their ears and feigned pain at his words in that oh-so-familiar manner. “Ah, well, you would, wouldn't you, sir?” a local herder piped up, to a chorus of laughter. She went back to wiping tankards with her rag. “You must've travelled far and wide looking for a bride as fine as this, sir!” Another round of cackling. She twitched. The thin man raised a hand. “Nah, I'm not looking for love...” “What a shame, Ruta!” “A shame!” “Better for the rest of us though - can you imagine what the children would sound like?” “...But I’d like to hear you sing.” She twitched again and went stock-still, hands clutching the tankard, knuckles going bone-white. don’t say anything In the corner, a masked, insubstantial-seeming traveller struck up a tune on a bizarre-looking, long-necked lyre. Nobody could quite remember him coming in. Then the thin man took out a similar instrument from somewhere and joined in, picking up the pace. It was so alien that even Ruta turned to see what was happening, even as the crowd just kept on laughing at her and them both. Why did nobody notice how out of place these strangers were? Was this some elaborate prank? Was it a dream? If so, should... should she sing anyway? don’t speak, don't speak, don't speak “Just sing whatever way you like. Trust me.” The strangers played on, their instruments wailing and heading towards a dreadful crescendo, drawing her inward and upward. The crowd just kept cackling all around her, but it was all a little twisted, a little warped, like the sound was slowly going mad, running up and down the walls don't speak don't speak don't speak don't speak don't speak don’t speak don'tspeakdon'tspeakdon'tspeakdon’tdoit and the insults and jeers melted away into the duelling snarling whining beasts' voices and they played louder and higher and faster until it all blended together into one great big electronic– scream she didn't even feel it start, like it was there the whole time, caught in her throat she didn't even feel her hand rip her hair from its bun and sweep it around her head and out poured all the rage and frustration and shame and guilt and spite and more and more and all of the pain boiled up and coalesced into a noxious cloud that streamed through the window-cracks and rolled under the door until it was all gone and there was this weird feeling left behind that she couldn't quite put her finger on and when it finally stopped, and the outsiders wound down their strange playing, she was bent double and crying into her hands, not out of sadness or happiness, just from the sheer sense of release. After what felt like hours of dark silence, she slowly straightened up and parted the veil of her hair. Everyone but the two strangers was slumped over their tables or lying on the floor. The masked man kept playing his tune in the background, pausing now and then to loot the pockets of the K.O.'d crowd and sip on/spit in their drinks. The thin man gave her a bony pat on the back and by Živa, he's a talking skeleton, an apparition, a fiend. She stared at him mutely as he spoke, not quite listening to what he was saying. “See? Ain't it better when you just let it out? And honestly, gently caress all these people. You should be hanging out with your own crowd, not pissing your time away here. And–” All the bones of his right hand started to clickety-clack together. “Just a sec.” Jones extended his thumb and little finger and held it up by his faceplate: “Yello?” Theantero posted:Mar'arr'nenkeshet let out a huge, terrible scream that echoed through the firmament. It was a greeting of sort, an inquisitive prod towards all that could hear such cacophonies. Click. “Where was I… oh, yeah. Really, really believe me when I say I like your voice. It’s good, honestly. And, uh... I'm out. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place - got lost and went West instead of East, would you believe it - and I got a schedule to follow. See you around.” And then he's gone, leaving her behind to ponder his words. In truth, she’d only been half listening. That didn't matter though, because she realised that for the first time in forever, she felt... good. Unfortunately, it didn't last long. That heavy misery she'd expelled hung in the air like silt, then slowly drained back inside, back through her pores, where it congealed around her heart and lungs and throat all over again. That was too much to bear, and she finally fell down into merciful unconsciousness like all the rest. As she slept, she began to dream about the Thin Man, and the commands he had given her. ~~~~~~~~~~ Outside, Jones pulled out a manila folder and checked its contents while the Phantom peered over his shoulder. Ruta Lantos, yadda yadda yadda, voice like dirt, blah blah blah, treated like dirt etcetera. Just like the boys upstairs said! Not only did they not bitch at him about the whole crashing-into-a-mountain thing, they let him know about this young talent who needed a pick-me-up. Today was a good day. Now, to find a caravan that would take him where he should have touched down... Horror Action for last turn: Jones is personally Uncannily Recruiting an Agent at O:17.10 by taking someone at breaking point and sympathetically getting them to unleash their emotions, also using the free Harbinger invoke to have the Phantom of the Rock Opera play alongside him. Uncannily Recruiting an Agent in Bytcina using Harbinger invoke: 4dF+4 6 vs +1 Difficulty: Success with Style. pre:Agent: Ruta, a Marach UnCO3 fucked around with this message at 00:36 on Apr 25, 2016 |
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Apr 9, 2016 04:30
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Captain Anselm Agent of Tign Anselm was patrolling the pass when Don Giardo found him, seeking penance for his failure to prepare the way for the great door to the Master’s realm. His previous failure weighed heavily on his heart, but when he saw his old friend he knew immediately what must be done. He would share the wondrous truth that now dominated his life with his friend and redeem himself in the Master’s eyes all at once. For he knew that all must serve Tign, and all would give thanks for the opportunity to do so. “Old friend!” the Don called out, “I have been searching for you.” He comes closer to Anselm, who dismounts from his own horse. “It is good to see you, but why are you looking for me?” Anselm feigns confusion, but he knows that word of the groups work had been noticed. “There are rumors you deserted, that you had turned to banditry!” Giardo responds. “Scurrilous lies, no doubt spread by evil and jealous men.” Anselm is vehement. “Turned to banditry, nonsense, I have merely discovered something of far greater importance than whatever trade passes through these lands. “What do you mean, brother?” Giardo is clearly taken aback by Anselm’s response. “It is good that you have come, brother, I will share with you the most important truth in the world.” He began to speak of Tign, of His truth, His majesty, the absoluteness of His rule. As he spoke, Anselm could feel the Master’s power bubble up within him, he had been touched with a small bit of the Master’s glory, so that he might lead the wretched masses out of the darkness of ignorance into the light of the King of Kings. He spoke for hours, his zeal growing greater with each passing word, Giardo was enraptured, to hear his friend speak so powerfully, he could feel the great truth of it seeping into his bones. As each hour passed the image of a figure grew clearer and clearer in his mind’s eye, the king that his friend Anselm was describing to him, a golden king, the perfect king, the only king! Giardo could see it, the King on HIS great golden throne, all peoples of all nations gathered around, on their knees before their rightful ruler. No more war, no more strife, no more anger or hate, every person, every man, woman, and child, old friends and blood sworn enemies alike, united in love for their king, their lives dedicated entirely to HIS service. Even the gods in heaven above had lost their enmity for they joined in the chorus, praising HIM alone, pledging their whole selves to obey HIM in all things, now and forever. At some point, he knew not when, Giardo had fallen to his knees, now he bowed, pressing his forehead into the earth in a show of total submission, crying out in a loud joyous voice, “All hail to the true King, may His will be ever done. I pledge my life, my fortune, my name, and my honor, all I am and all I may ever be to Him. I will serve Him in this life, and forever after.” “In His name I accept your pledge, brother.” Anselm responds, and now that affectionate title had taken on a new meaning, for now they were both brother-servants of the Master. They were equal, for they knew that any rank or title not given by Him was meaningless, nothing more than a tool to help bring Him into His kingdom and then be discarded. “Now come brother, open your heart to Him, and listen to His voice alone, for He has much to tell you.” Subverting Don Giardo (Dreadful +3 & Tign's Gift +2) Difficulty: +2: 4dF+5 4 Success O17:17
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Apr 9, 2016 06:30
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The Golden Order Cult of Tign While their captain saw to the conversion of the Don, the rest of his men were resuming their normal patrols, though not for the reason they had originally been assigned them. When one group found a lone merchant, they waited until night had fallen and waylaid him. Tying him up and taking him back to their camp. While the former men-at-arms traveled, they spoke to him of the King of Kings the whole time, their zeal granting a great and terrible power to their words. The terrified merchant was particularly vulnerable, and by the time they had returned to the camp, he was nodding along, and as they sang His praises late into the night, the Master’s glory began to touch his soul. When the next morning came, Theodo the merchant left at the crack of dawn a changed man. No more did trade routes and baubles concern him, his business, his old life was of secondary concern. He had been called to a higher purpose, to serve the one true king. As he walked, he walked no longer as a humble and fearful merchant, but as one of the blessed few who knew the truth of the world and who let it rule his every thought and desire. On the trails, other merchants were swept up in the glory that had now touched him, though they knew not why, if he but asked they would grant him any favor. It wouldn't last, the servile nature of the people was temporarily brought to the fore by the echo of the Master’s power, and such an echo would fade, but Theodo knew it was a premonition of what was to come. There would be a day such devotion and servility would be as commonplace as the air all around him, and he longed for that day with all his heart and soul. O17:17: Recruiting a traveling merchant as an Agent (Dreadful +3). Difficulty: +1: 4dF+3 5 Success with Style quote:
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Apr 9, 2016 07:32
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Zarkai Last and Greatest Tyrant, Champion of Praxis, Eater of Monkeys Walks-Among-the-Stones limped his way through the jungle, cursing it and every beast that lived in it. The burst of power and adrenaline that the blood had given him had allowed him to outrun the scale-birds, an appreciable result given their agility and their size in this labyrinth of trees, but being eaten by a wyrmhound as opposed to a legion of smaller lizards wasn't much of an improvement. Nor is dying of an infection., he thought, resisting the urge to poke his now empty eyesocket. The pulsing pain had not subsized and while he was no shaman, he guessed that was not a good sign. What I need to do is rest for a while and collect my thoughts. I have put enough ground between me and those little monsters, I can afford to... He had barely begun to sit down when a javelin flew from the canopy and landed a foot from him his tail. Without hesitation, he bolted amongst the trees once more. ----------------------------------------------------- You weren't really tired before, old man. Now you are. thought to herself Climbs-the-Canopy, about two hours later, as she jumped from one tree to another following the mad dash of her former chieftain through the jungle. She knew full well that she could not hope to match him in an honest fight, so she opted for the same strategy that the tribe used to hunt the mammoth iguana; stalk it and tire it out. With the height advantage that she had and knowledge of the terrain that the Compsos had shared with her, by guiding her through it and screeching whenever a choke point or other place of interest was found, she knew it was only a matter of time before the time to strike came. Right on cue, the imposing figure of Walks-Among-the-Stones collapsed, and confident Climbs-the-Canopy dropped from treetops, already reaching for the fiber rope she was carrying. At the very last second, she noticed that the other lizardman's eyes were still open a fraction of an inch. She jumped back, just in time to avoid the swishing tail of her opponent, that would surely have knocked her down. Walks raised himself, hissing a challenge at the younger beastwoman and charging at her, mouth agape and claws at the ready. Zarkai's newest emissary readied her javelin, hoping that he would impale himself upon it, but the warrior was far to clever for that and moved to swat away the weapon. She backed down and the chieftain pressed her, forcing her to back down against the trees. "I will eat your heart for this, hatchling!" shouted Walks, charging at his opponent, but nimble Climbs-the-Canopy immediately dropped the javelin and jumped to the right, reaching for a low branch; she immediately raised herself on it and climbed to another one, out of reach of her landbound chieftain. Seeing her prepare another javelin, Walks-among-the-Stones hissed in frustration and ran once more. As she followed him, her answer was heard among the foliage: "This is the second time today that someone calls me an hatchling, but the first one was much worthier than you, old fool!". quote:As my Agent Action, I'll have Climbs-the-Canopies attempt to Restlessy subvert the Scavenger: Climbs-the-Canopy chases the Scavenger to exhaustion: 4dF+2 0
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Apr 9, 2016 16:10
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Horror: Skellington Jones Backstage, Sheryl the Secretary was filing her nails when all of a sudden, the phone rang. “Hello, you've reached Black Records Inc., how can I help--” “--you?” Wow. The guy sounded awful slimy. Sheryl followed her better judgement and hung up. I mean, just from the way he breathed he sounded like a used car salesman. Can you even imagine a more evil, corrupt, low creature than that? Thought not. Besides, if the big man needed a car, the guys in R&D would just build one for him themselves. Sheryl finished filing her nails, then got back to filing boardroom minutes, when mostly of a sudden, the phone rang again. “Hello, you've reached Black Records Inc., how can I help you?” Shogeton posted:"Who goes there on that world? Does it still remember their Queen-Goddess? Are humanity's songs still so beautiful?" ~~~~~~~~~~ Jones felt another call come through his fingerbones. Again? He hadn’t been this busy since, well... Anyway. “Yello?” UnCO3 fucked around with this message at 00:36 on Apr 25, 2016 |
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Apr 9, 2016 17:01
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Maen Mother of Madness, Patroness of Artists, Queen of Love, the Moon's Prisoner.. "Black Star? The stars they dance. It's beautiful in a way, but they all dance the same pattern. And they never touch. Are you invisible against the night's sky, Black Star? Tell the others stars to change their dance. I've been looking at this dance far too long. Or ask my love to come in the night sky. Why the dark side of the moon my love, could you not stand my gaze on you, or your gaze on me? So cruel! So cruel!" It was a voice Skellington Jones might be familiar with. When he wore a younger man's coat and another name. But she barely seemed to be able to talk to him.
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Apr 9, 2016 17:24
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Horror: Skellington Jones A chill ran up Jones’ spine, and his smile ran away from his face. It couldn’t be-- but it had to be. It certainly sounded like it might be, but it also sounded like she wasn't in the right frame of mind for making sense. Still, he held out hope - maybe he could get a message through. “Is… is that you, Maen? Oh gods, how long has it been since-- since it happened? Since we last spoke? We did such beautiful songs, you and I, back when--” all the bones down his right side convulsed and distorted momentarily, and the smell of burning flesh and hot tungsten filled the air “--back, when, when... what? Haha, what the gently caress am I even saying here babe? What the gently caress are you even saying? Look, I’ll get back to you later, I got a show to get to. Seeya.” UnCO3 fucked around with this message at 00:36 on Apr 25, 2016 |
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Apr 9, 2016 17:54
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Maen Mother of Madness, Patroness of Artists, Queen of Love, the Moon's Prisoner.. "Yes, we sang. I remember, there were birds and the sun was gone but there were all these new emotions and everything was going to be okay. But I don't remember a black star then. But my memories are odd. Like mirrorshards all over." "Hello..." "I can't hear you..." And then, soon after, Maen's mind was drawn back to the mirror, the conversation just one odd conversation of the many she waged with things that were not real, quickly forgotten.
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Apr 9, 2016 19:11
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  When the exterior of sleek architecture, psionic cenotes, and other affectations of the ileth is all stripped away, there is only bare stone with impossible architecture not made for mortalkind, or even mortal-kin, designed to not be perceived with the eyes but with the mind, with its non-Euclidean shapes and completely unorthodox angles. It seems to rise up through not just the physical surroundings of this once great city of the aboleth, but in the minds of those around it. Those who pass over the waters, and many do, are struck with dreams of this tower, not beneath the waves but having risen above it, calling to them. Your Eyes reveal to you the follow truths about the world...  The Shipwreck Graveyard is a place of power located at hex 38.29. Over the ages, many have tried to sail the waters of the Starfall Sea, and many have sunk to the bottom of the Watery Abyss. Unlike on the continental shelves off the coast, there has been no chance of recovery or slavage of these ships, yet save for the occasional whale carcass or ruin of a primordial race, the silt-covered surface of the Abyss is rather empty of such. It's almost as if they are all pulled away by some force of gravity, to a deep fissure that leads into a pool of radiance, of some kind of power of destiny or fate, a veritable "bermuda triangle" where ships crossing over seem marked with the inevitability that they will join the others. Yet the graveyard is oddly arranged, as if there was some hand, or other tendril, at work in laying the pieces... The Graveyard exhibits no sign of Corruption.  The kraken is a monster, and is unique, inhabiting the Shipwreck Graveyard. It combines several qualities of both an octopus and a squid, with spines on its hood and burning brilliant blue eyes that are remarkably human-like. It is large enough to capsize a mortal ship, and drag it down to its lair, which it does, eating the then drowned crew, and then adding the shipwreck and re-arranging them at a time, as if taking trophies and some disturbing amount of pride in it. It has a cold and calculating intelligence beyond the capability of most beasts or monsters. If given time to cultivate the corruption of Evil, this could be the nascent seed of a Horror. It guards the Shipwreck Graveyard fiercely, and will not likely take kindly to any invaders. It uses its eight tentacles, jets of acidic venom, and great beak to bind, blind, and consume its victims. The kraken exhibits no sign of Corruption. The kraken's Origin is that of Monstrous Cephalopod. Its Approaches are +3 Forceful, +2 Clever, +2 Quick, +1 Dreadful, +1 Sneaky. A Villain is revealed upon the world!  The Dread Pirate is one of the seven Villains of this Epoch. He is both Evil and Un-Dead. He is known by the name Captain Wormwood, which might simply be the name of his black ship, and both are used interchangeably. The Dread Pirate's origin is lost to time, but it is known he is quite old, having lived and perhaps haunted the seas before the great Northron-Southron War. People bicker as to his exact origins as none wishes to claim him, but most commonly it is told that he was one of the frontier captains who accepted the Viceroy's charter and silver to go fight the Pashen with the rest of the Magnian galleons, but mutinied against the admiral, and was run down and capsized with the ship still on it. The tales vary in how wild a tale they are, with the wildest having him sailing his ship into hell and challenging Meverab to a duel (of wits or steel or both) and winning a way to come back, or being infused by some otherworldly evil power. Wormwood, for his part, fuels the fires of every story, but not necessarily with any sense of intention or forethought like many privateers and pirates on the Starfall Sea. Rather, the Dread Pirate lives the legends, utterly and truly. He is few of words and is as a literal demon on the waters, capturing his crew and bending them to his will slowly until they are as accursed as he, and his ship is filled with men that are just as twisted and daemonic as their captain. He has no loyalties to any people or any cause. He plunders coastal towns and cuts open the belly of galleons, but what he desires the coin for no one knows. He is said to command other pirates as their own demigod, and seems to delight in the worship. Like some villains, the Dread Pirate is a nascent Horror in his own right, though what keeps him from crossing the rubicon is hard to say. The Dread Pirate appears as a rotting corpse dressed in rags of a mariner, often adopting the last attire of the captain or admiral he slew and then letting it rot and burn away from exposure to his body. Most infamously, his eyes are lit aglow, and his beard made of balefire that burns cold, but doies singe and warp everything it touches. He carries a falchion, and fingers something in his pocket when thinking. The Dread Pirate's Origin is that of Demon Corsair, while his Forte is ????? ????? and his Foible ????? ?????. He exhibits no sign of Corruption. The Dread Pirate's Secret is undiscovered. The Dread Pirate's Approaches are +4 Restless, +3 Awful, +2 Dreadful, +2 Uncanny, +1 Weird, +1 Leery. Meanwhile, on the path to Ngotlelzh... The merrow herald of Auluudh crosses the unfamiliar dark waters with a singular speed and task, and the limitations of the current exertion of control, perhaps simple a rare oversight by the Eldest, in overriding many of the natural instincts of the fishfolk servitor in order to ensure his obedience. Even adapted to the cold waters and gifted with some psionic ability by Auluudh's influence, the deep merrow explorer still swam through waters dark and unknown and untread by his people, and there was much that lurked in the darkness. Knowing not but the direction he was going, he saw a light beneath in the caverns, and paused. Haathatuanth was much the same, a cavern city marked by lights, and he kicked against the waters and moved in closer towards the light. Beyond the haze of light, in the inky darkness, it expanded to reveal a many more lights, glittering like stars against the hide of the blind, hungry angler as its maw opened wide to swallow whole the merrow as it drew nearer. Per the merrow's failure, I determined the aspect and get a free invoke. I choose Angler Nest and use the free invoke to generate a monster, a Starfall Angler. Divine Reaction: Hungry Angler Divine Action: Sneakily Attack Auluudh's Merrow. +2 from Force.: 4dF+4 2 Merrow #1 defends as a reaction. Combat is engaged.  The Starfall angler is a type of monster that inhabits the Starfall Sea, specifically the Watery Abyss. Relatively rare, the anglers can remain still in water for years without eating or sleeping, completely hibernating until they sense warmth through the nasal pits, having no eyes or other real senses, at which point their body generates light from their lure at their front, as well as the "starry" hide on their body, as their blood quickens and the brightness is equal to their level of energy and verve. They are solely ambush predators, though they can at times exhibit bursts of speed and strength, and have spear-like teeth that fill their mouth. They are quite large, able to consume a mortal-sized being whole, though not quite the size of a leviathan. The angler's Origin is that of Monstrous Anglerfish. Its Approaches are +2 Sneaky, +1 Forceful, +1 Quick, +1 Flashy. Near the lights of Phorcys, crossing underneath the canyons... Capalxoche knew better than the deep ones about these demons, and while they were content to swim closely, she would rather have given a wide berth, but this is where the currents went, and where the trail of the lost seekers brought the desperate captive. Surely the demons absconded with the deep merrow for whatever terrible means they had, and the thought awakened a sense of nervousness and fear in the merrow as she swam through the cold and dark waters, so much unlike the warm shallows she was akin to. Instead of kelp here, full of life, there was only these translucent strands floating like grass, coming up from... Wait, those were not coming from below. They were coming from above.  The demonic apparition seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and Capalxoche panicked only for a moment before her instinct overrode such things and she burst with a powerful twist of her tail deeper into teh canyons, as the light pulsated from the great medusa colony-being. She swam and swam and swam until there was no light, deep into the tunnels where she thought the great being could not follow her, only stopping once she had nop energy left and had to scrounge for any kind of food, happening upon a blind cave lobster and basking it open to eat its white meat inside. As she did so, something hung behind the fins of her head, just a single strange of translucent membrane, but it pulsed with light, and had the faintest hint inside of life... Force Reaction: The Apparition Force Action: Sneakily Create Advantage. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+2 0 Prophecy Reroll. Force Action: Sneakily Create Advantage. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+2 2 Tie. The Apparition gains the boost Distaff Hanger-on which can be invoked once to help Capalxoche, or hinder her. In the traditional merrow capital of Tepotzotl... The scent of blood and the desire for power over all others called many merrow to what would be seen as both the natural and unnatural successor to the old chief of the teotl, that of his daughter, who would become known as the Blood Empress. She saw upon the throne of collected skulls of every peoples they had tkane from and sacrificed to their god machines, and though most were piscine and beastly, she had other plans now, that were grander than any of the small-minded teotl before her. Glutted on the blood of mortals, she knew that the truest path to power was not to be found here in the cold sea, and certainly not in the cold and abyssal depths, but above, from where the Smoking Mirror and Rainbow Serpent both hailed. A great slave army was collected by the merrow warriors who raided the other cities in skirmishes with the hunters and fishers that had to keep their cities fed, with the swelling numbers due to the spawning the preceded every anemone war. This would fulfill her obligations to this ancient ritual, and the gods, but her mind was already elsewhere, as she considered how best to proceed... Faction Reaction: Starfall Clutches Tie. A force is recruited. pre:Tepotzotl Anemone Army A merrow force. Origin: Captive Army +2 Forceful, +2 Quick Tricky Dick Nixon fucked around with this message at 00:53 on Apr 11, 2016 |
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Apr 9, 2016 19:28
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The Lurker Beneath, the Third King of the Cold Dark, the Great Old, He who takes minds freely, the Star-Seeker Free Invoke: Additional Workforce (Heralds of the Deepest Kingdom) Free Invoke: Hall of Visions (Lesser Horror, Tower, 36:30) Boost: Famous Explorers (Heralds of the Deepest Kingdom) Boost: Laying in Ambush (Heralds of the Deepest Kingdom) Fate be damned! I cannot suffer a distraction at such critical a time. We must reach Ngotlelzh before it is too late! ... That's what you expected me to say, is it not, dear Ileth? No, I am not so easily foiled. I may be dormant, but I am not idle. I saw this coming, thanks to the Hall of Visions you so helpfully repaired. So... I prepared a counter-ambush. And, if I may say so myself, it worked perfectly. Just look at that poor, primitive beast chasing the bait right into our trap. And when it does... In hex U:38:31, the Heralds of the Deepest Kingdom enter combat with the Angler and Defend for Merrow #1. Leerily Defending for Merrow #1: 4dF+3 0 Failure. Rerolling using one free invoke of Hall of Visions. Leerily Defending for Merrow #1 (Reroll): 4dF+3 3 Success with Style. (Because I am defending with my Cult instead of the Actor, the +2 upshift for targeting Agents is gone.) Choosing Boost Laying in Ambush. Yami Fenrir fucked around with this message at 20:21 on Apr 9, 2016 |
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Apr 9, 2016 20:17
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The Golden Dwarves Servitors of Tign Frustrated at the failure of his cultists to make progress in the work to establish a link between his prison and the outside world, so that others might experience his glory first-hand. Tign raises a hand and gestures for some of his dwarves to attend to the matter. They move at once, locating the proper point opposite of where the humans had failed and beginning to dig, the same action that had brought them into the Master’s service. They fared no better than the Golden Order. Spending an Abberance to Invoke Servitor: Golden Dwarves activating them for the rest of the age. Creating an Advantage on Golden Palace. (Weird[+2]). Difficulty: +3: 4dF+2 1. Failure
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Apr 9, 2016 21:10
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Within the unknown prison of they expressed in ideas, not words - A small dog/its teeth/starvation in its time Unusued temporary aspects remaining:
Discovery Phase "...What do you mean she recruited my herald!" The horror shouted, flinging his wine to the endless walls. "I turn away from that gentleman for one second, and he not only reveals our existence, but gets himself in the hands of the village people's mother hen!" The shouting continued, parting the terrified smoke. "...There are bright sides to this news, however - with my new agent and view on the world, I can expand forth and-" Whatever inhuman, cruel, vile train of thought was wandering within Archie's head was crashed. Killing everyone inside was a constant beep, as if a magical sound was severed at one end. "What in the world is..." Just then, a large slap of rock slammed onto what should have been his foot. It was, as he had not warped his head around the concept of not requiring human physiology. "GAH!" "Oh, is that what my first message sounded like? From the outside, that looks awful." Turning to his side he saw a seemingly normal letter of his returned - seemingly unread, he examined. Curious and curiouser, he recoiled when the letter cut his entirely unnecessary hand. The arch traitor snapped. Shall smack the little poo poo of a letter which cut him for no reason (not an actual roll, but more of a fluff roll): 4dF+3 4 Grabbing the traitor letter within its inhumane grasp, the arch traitor pinned it to the floor and mutely whispered 'no' to the bird. "Oh no, oh nono." The force to break a million drums. "You do NOT!" The heartbreak from a million guns. "Cut me" The crackling of a million suns. "When! I! AM! YOUR! MASTER! YOU! BLUNT-FOSTERING! CUNDERSTNATCH!" Civilizati- "Of course, plans and such. I will return to you later." Commented the Arch traitor, disintegrating letter after remembering that was a possibility. "Alright, here's the plan - for now, I will let Shun persue this mystery he has embroilled himself in. As for here, I believe this mere 'exile' can be used to my advantage." And so, the arch traitor set to devising a cunning stunt based on one of the oldest tricks in the book - well, as soon as he dealt with the mysterious buzzing noise. Having sent is orders to this incarnation of shun, which were little more than "Do what you want" at this stage, The Arch traitor sought, plotted and waited. Shun, meanwhile, simply took the next boat to the city across the sea where the title's current blood trail had sent him. Serving a being who made do demands of you was... nice, Shun supposed. Whether or not the being would avoid the mistakes of his predecessor would remain to be seen. In any case, he had a boat to catch - whether or not his sudden decision to travel would be tracked or not did not come to him. But, as a standard Noddite, travel was not unheard of - after all, how did anyone end up in Haven were it not for travel and exile? From Hex 23.34 to hex 21.29 Shun shall attempt to Uncannily travel, using the prebuilt route, without generating suspicion.: 4dF+2 1 End of Arch Traitor Discovery Phase
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Apr 10, 2016 01:21
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Agent: Ruta, a Vocalist When Ruta awoke the next morning, she felt that she was still in dream, for nothing had changed. Nothing outwardly, that is - nobody mentioned the horrible, incredible incident of the previous day. Nobody changed their view of her; the only opinion of her that had changed was her own. What a change it was, though. She quite clearly remembered the Thin Man's instructions. Gather like-minded outcasts unto you and unite them as one body, he'd said. Sing a song of ice and iron and stain the cloistered choirs with the muck of the outside world, he'd very definitely said. She set about these tasks with zest, finding people in the grip of adolescent crises or with a bone to pick with the way things were, and inviting them to join a new choir, a better choir. Some were intrigued by the girl who never spoke finally speaking out. Others agreed to come along to make her stop singing. Most were just there to test the limits of tradition. After all, what could be more rebellious and adventurous than challenging the wives of the goddess themselves, in the field of their greatest expertise? Soon enough she’d assembled a motley crew of Marach youths who'd slipped the emotional bonds of their society, one way or the other. Bogatyr made up a decent proportion, backed by other rejects and misfits like her. There were even a few Vendals who’d been roped in by Marach friends. They practiced in the marshes and drew on personal experience (and more than a little false bravado) to build up their own choirsong. It was utterly different from that practiced by the, heh, miserably conformist temple choirs. This song was all passion, all about spurning tradition, rough adventure, and not giving a gently caress what anyone else thought of you. Dragon-slaying played a major part, the bogatyrs made sure of that. They were all god-awful at singing, but Ruta somehow managed to direct them together into strange harmonies that touched the soul in unearthly ways. And then everyone got drunk afterwards. For the first time in a long time, Ruta felt... unalone. Agent Action for last turn: Ruta is Dreadfully recruiting a Cult – the Iron Choir – of Marach misfits and bogatyrs at O17.10, using her Boost and her voice. I forgot that you could apply things like boosts after rolling, but ah well. Ruta Dreadfully recruiting the Iron Choir also using her Boost: 4dF+5 7 vs +2 Difficulty: Success with Style. pre:Cult: The Iron Choir Origin: Musical Misfits Approaches: Dreadful +3, Restless +2, Uncanny +2, Weird +2, Subtle -1 Boost: Fools Rush In Where Sphinxes Fear To Tread UnCO3 fucked around with this message at 00:36 on Apr 25, 2016 |
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Apr 10, 2016 02:01
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Narshesh Narshesh works like a madman working on his history of ancient Abyssidia, trying to reflect the new knowledge he has learned regarding the exalted state of ancient pyromancy. He feels both tired and energized, like he's possessed almost with a strange energy as the words flow out of their pen. That this might be a dangerous work, he's unaware of. How can the truth be dangerous? He's oblivious to the fact that explaining that the ancient pyromancers of Abyssidia held an exalted rank; indeed, ruled the Empire, might encourage the already arrogant pyromancers; that in a conservative society that relies so much on tradition, to cite old precedent in favor of changes is itself a revolutionary act. None of this comes to mind as he writes. Why should it? Much of Narshesh's common sense is gone now, replaced by new found zeal. So he writes and writes, not caring what that effect may have. Subtly corrupting Amon Qor, creating the advantage "Sense of Pyromantic Supremacy" Difficulty +3, Bonus +3 (+1 subtle, +2 Hidden Knowledge) Subtly corrupting Amon Qor, creating the advantage "Sense of Pyromantic Supremacy": 4dF+3 0 Fail! Spending Narshesh's Boost to reroll Subtly corrupting Amon Qor, creating the advantage "Sense of Pyromantic Supremacy": 4dF+3 5 Society for the Study of Abbysid History The society continued its work and its meetings. The members of the society were ambitious and often paranoid, which meant they tended to keep their eyes and ears open for information that would give them an advantage or their enemies a disadvantage, and so they carefully moved through the city, trying to discover anything they could turn to their advantage, and heard drabs of things. Leerily Listing for Rumors: 4dF+3 0 Tie Epicurius fucked around with this message at 03:45 on Apr 10, 2016 |
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Apr 10, 2016 02:57
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 Hadremor In the Crystal City of Kath-Bereth, the Malketh stirred. Millennia ago, they fled to this strange land and built their crystal city. There, they prospered, living as they had for generations, and largely forgetting their old homes. But now, there was a change. The strange stars over Kath-Bereth held portents that troubled the Malketh seers. In the Temple of the Lady, the augurs studied the bones of those slaves who had been starved for that purpose, and shuddered. The Masters of the Arena held great games, slaughtering untold numbers of slaves and beasts to sooth the restless mood of the people. Yes, things were unsettled. The council met. Voices were raised. Duels were fought, and young lords found themselves suddenly found themselves thrust into positions of power after devouring their predecessors. But the omens were clear. It was a time for change. The same omens that many generations ago led the Malketh to this place were present. Perhaps the time of exile was done. Perhaps the Age of Man was ending, and it would, once again, be the Age of the Malketh. But the Malketh were cautious. It was in their blood; and the reason they survived while their predecessors who didn't flee were destroyed. They would send scouts out to the old world turned new; to discover if the times really were right. Carefully, the scouts were selected; young Maketh, clanless ones, and those without connection. They would succeed, and thus gain the right to a clutch of their own, or they would die. Small portals were established, and swiftly and silently, the scouts traveled through. Spending one Aberrance to activate the Aspect Servitors: The Malketh to place spies on Amon Qor in a Leery manner. Leerily Placing Spies (Difficulty 1): 4dF+3 2 Success Epicurius fucked around with this message at 02:56 on Apr 11, 2016 |
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Apr 11, 2016 02:41
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Brennos Ahiram's Apprentice Brennos the craftsman stared at his work in a half-tired haze. It has been a few weeks since his fateful encounter with the man of metal, and since then he's only managed a few nights of restful sleep. Whenever he laid his head to rest, he'd often been harassed with nightmarish flashbacks, or a shivering, full-bodied unease. Still, though, there was some kind of force which pulled him through each and every day. Not only did it let him get through his work day, it even let him approach his craft with a renewed vigor he hadn't felt in a while. It was thanks to the metal man himself. There was just something... very strangely beautiful about him. And those gifts he brought in that silver box. As works of craft and metallurgy, they were really not like anything else he had ever seen! "Yes, that's right. Not like anything else." A whisper echoed through his mind. It was cold, but comforting. He'd been feeling it and hearing it ever since that night. "But that power can be yours, you know. Just keep doing as I say and that beauty will be in your hands." Brennos nodded feverishly. Nothing else seemed to matter at this moment; he was in the midst of a storm of inspiration and he could already feel that the results were going to be great. --- After just a few days of work, it was done. With shaking hands, Brennos reached down, picked one of the items up off the table, and held it between his forefinger and thumb. It was a dark, metallic ring. One of slightly more than a dozen. It was a strange thing, shaped and molded into an only vaguely circular shape. All around the outside, it adorned with a countless number of irregular edges and corners that managed to catch light at wild, fascinating angles. As the light passed from one part to another, the color of the iridescent metal shifted through a variety of deep, dark, and powerful shades. All in all, the rings gave a pretty powerful impression. It was an impression similar to the one that filled his heart when he first saw that man of metal. Brennos smiled. Being able to achieve that kind of familiarity filled his heart with warmth. It wasn't perfect, but if he kept this up maybe one day he might be able to build something as good as that. Brennos the Apprentice dreadfully creates a set of beautiful/eerie rings. Rolling +1 Dreadful, +2 for Ahiram's Gift: 4dF+3 = 2 vs 2 Tie. Creates a single boost, 'Iridescent Rings'. Takanago fucked around with this message at 05:17 on Apr 11, 2016 |
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Apr 11, 2016 04:37
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In Low Waethai, as tensions boil... "Please listen to me!" Whenever someone has to result to these words, it is certain their cause might be doomed. It only added to the jeers and spitting of the crowd, as the hierodule, dressed in her sheer vestments and bearing a wooden mask over half her face, lifted her forearms to block the thrown stones and rotten fruit that they threw at her, jeering. They called her a variety of colorful phrases and words, but the one that gained the most traction, that did the best in dividing her from the other mortals that had clannishly united against all that was elvish, was one single word with a long and storied history among all mortal cultures. "Collaborator!" Engl grimaced and slammed her staff on the ground, disrupting the leylines just enough to cause a rolling of the earth towards the mortals, dispersing the superstitions and undisciplined lot at the display of arcane flash. She immediately felt a needle of guilt for using the sacred arcana in such a selfish and venal way, and acting in anger against Bekwae's holy face. Yet she had been cornered, against the sheer cliff and gazing up above at the shadows of the city of High Waethai above. Where were the Divine here? Where were their elder protectors now? It was so lonely down here, on this hollow sphere. It felt as if they were not present at all. Divine Reaction: Engl, a Hierophant Divine Reaction: Flashily Create Advantage. Difficulty +2.: 4dF+3 1 Failure. An aspect of Ghods Can't Save You Now is created on Engl, and the Ministry gets a free invoke. In High Waethai, isolated from the rabble below... The archives and crypteia of the elves are curious in that they are not truly organized in the same way mortals might set aside their libraries and vaults. They are shared, accessible to all, with the sages and scribes only there to direct one's mind and desire for study, as there is often rather ad hoc organization, while also maintaining the fragile texts and knowledge. The codices and scrolls here are kept very well, and there's a strong cultural respect for what is kept here in this city, though surely it does not compare to the grand cryptopolies of Perfaet Elanqar. Nor do they aspire to. Many high elves prefer the more accessible nature of the archives here, and while it's not as cutthroat or political as the salons in Elanqar, there's a genuine academic atmosphere and interest here to while away the years with. Vorn knows better. Vorn knows that the true elite of their society is those who hold the instruments of knowledge. He is of a middle generation, having come after the ancient by several ages, but not like the most recent who were marked by their thorned horns and their increasingly mortal-like passions and desires. Perhaps they were further from the Quiet, and only seemed more lively by comparison, but Vorn had reason to think little of them, as the ancients and their trusted confidantes. This is the case of all elder races, as the ancien regime of those who came first, no matter the form of their society, form a nobility of obvious power, still so close in nature to the giants. While each of the elder races expressed this regime differently, for the elves, knowledge was the key. The regime, through the tribunals of the nine Highest, who may give cursory acknowledgment to younger scholars and philosophers but only just, guards the true secrets of the Hollow, what the elder races call the world. Just as the lower elves, supposedly free and equal by birth to all other elders, hang promises of secrets and benefice over the pilgrims at the bottom of the cliff, so too is there a chain of patronage and control exerted by knowledge, the only true currency or form of value for the eladrin, who disdain mortal benefices such as commerce and trade. Vorn perhaps had been driven to the edge already when the Ministry happened upon him. Murdering the Sage would not have made him any Higher. Perhaps it was simply an expression of the descent into insanity that seems to plague many scribes who do not simply ponder or converse, but truly think out the implications of their existence. It was fertile ground for the Ministry's brand of poison. Vorn could indeed access any codex or scroll he desired, in his new mission to aid his blackmailers and benefactors, but so could any other of the high elves, as access to the archives and even crypteia was free for all... Except he knew that some were edited, in the process of maintaining them. He knew the Sage kept some kind of private collection as well, or at least he suspected, from both conjecture and evidence. The plan then was to attempt and subtly influence Raenastarre to give more and more privileges and duties to Vorn, who was ever willing to share the burdens of the increasingly quiescent Highest. The Sage mutely acquiesced to most of these requests, not seeming to take much note. All the while, Vorn began to collect intelligence on the Sage's movements, the cataphracts he relied on, the scholars he kept counsel with, and the hierodule he shared his chambers with. After all, the hierophants and hierodules of the Temple of Life provided to the elves companionship, though it was rarely of the carnal sort. It was supposed to help subside the Quiet, to have a mortal companion. Vorn thought it more like a pet, though perhaps he was simply disdainful, or jealous, of how he perceived his elders used him and his ilk. All of that preparation and work, and he had come here, winding down one of the sacred glass wells, lit only by the natural light of starflower vine, tracing his fingers across etchings and finding what must have been some trick of the wwall, using all his elfin senses to find the secret door. Once he had traced the lines together, he glanced up from his recovered scroll, and then began to speak softly under his breath the words of power that brought the old magic back to life. Surely this could not have been done if the return of magic that had been observed slowly over the last age had not come to fruition. As the yawning portal came open, the abstract feeling of accomplishment was ended rather suddenly by a terrible realization that he was not alone. "My, just what have you found, Vorn?" The cloven feet of the Sage moved curiously silent, as Vorn wheeled to face the man in the metal mask. "H-Highest! I did not..." "When you move very little, you learn how not to be heard. Now, just what have you found? Curious, is it not, that something be hidden away from our fellows? Should we not share in it together, Vorn?" So it was that when Vorn descended into this hidden place, it was with the Sage's hidden eyes upon the back of his head, as they entered what he would know soon enough. It was a dark place, but it had the faintest hints of use. Vorn knew that the Sage had been here time and time again, though for what purpose? The codices here taught more than the theory of the master arcana, magic, but also its practice. And perhaps even more cruel and vile diabolism. Yet it also had things that seemed out of place, certain records, genealogies, and paraphernalia from the mortals. "How did you know, sage?" Vorn was frustrated at the game, but also having been found out. "You showed an interest, and a talent. Do not pout, it is unbecoming of you. Consider yourself better than most you did not take things at face value. That is why you are here." The sage traced the sharp end of his metallic gauntlets across a particular codex on a stand before a burning blue crystal, an item that was obviously sorcerous and thus dangerous. "And what is this place, then?" "Some knowledge is deemed by those who take on the judgment of such things as being, unfit. Not simply unfit for consumption. Unfit to even be. We, the eladrin, were entrusted to bear witness to the world, so over time, when it became too much for our sages to simply recite and remember, we collected pieces of the world. When the mortals started scribbling upon paper, we were intrigued, and collected their writings. We have even tried our hand at our own, but you know as better as any, that without that ineffable soul, our passions and knowledge cannot seem to find the same muse in the written word that they do." He turned halfway over his shoulder. "You know that is why we started to rejuvenate ourselves with them, do you not?" Vorn knew well enough the origin of new elves, though this ancient must have seen the face of a giant before, and that humbled him slightly, knowing that Vorn was of mortal make compared to this primordial elder being. "When the Highest decide that something is unfit to be, they collect all that is known of this thing that is to be banished from the world, and bring it here. They seal it away, layers upon layers. Every word, every memory, ever scrap they can find, is under my protection. That is my charge, and it has been since the very beginning of what they call the Profane Archive." Vorn grimaced slightly at the morbid smattering of skulls dotting the shelves and stands. "Surely then these are merely for the effect?" "Do not be naive. I said all forms of knowledge, every memory." To make his point, the sage tapped upon a symbol etched into the bone of one of them with his metallic talon, and there was an unearthly glow as the necromantic bindings were activated, and the eidolon, twisted over time and decay. but still present, moaning some sussurous nothings into the air. The elves knew necromancy well, in their study of the souls they themselves did not possess. The Sage explained that the elves do not believe in simply destroying what should not be, due to their ancient natuure and ties to the god Bekwae, and also the edict that no one can force anyone to do anything. The knowledge must still exist, though it is fine to put it away where no one else can find it. "And of course, sometimes what the various Highest believe should, and should not be, changes." They came to a narrow passageway and through a door into a circular stone room, with no immediate displays, except it stretched upwards and seemed to have alcoves difficult to see, for some unknown purpose. Vorn was trying to take this all in, and noticed a single dais at the center, which appeared to once hold some kind of circular artifact. "This is what you were looking for, was it not?" The sage said, standing at the threshold. "It is no longer here. It was taken from me, because the times changed, and it was deemed necessary, due to the sin of our most Highest." There is a deep bitterness to the sage's voice. Vorn looked blankly for a moment, before he realized what had just happened and felt a spark of bitterness of his own, turning to see the door close, and hear it lock. His shouts and demands to be released fell on deaf ears as the sage walked away, pondering aloud to himself as he was prone to do, perhaps fearing the Quiet would take hi, if he was silent for too long. "For ages, none of your impure ilk had the temerity, nor the means to find this place. You are just as callow and self-serving as the rest who had gotten so close, so how did you cross the threshold, Vorn? What works at your strings?" He continued to seal each threshold they passed, seven in all, going deep into this place, and finally hiding it away. "I am sure they will reveal themselves in due time." The sage was one of the oldest beings still alive. He knew a thing or two about dark forces. Yet even he could not guess at the magnitude of what was to unfold. Force Reaction: The Sage Force Action: Cleverly Create Advantage. Difficulty +1.: 4dF+2 1 Spending a point of Prophecy to upgrade to a Success. An aspect of Imprisoned in the Archives is given to Vorn, and this one is slightly special as it will bar Vorn from moving to any other hex. You can take actions as normal, though your difficulties might change, and obviously you need to factor in the narrative of being trapped in the archives. In order for Vorn to escape, he, or some other minion of the Ministry must succeed at an Overcome check against a Difficulty of +3. The Secret of Waethai has been revealed! Secret: Profane ArchivesUnder the auspices of the Sage, the high elves have gathered forbidden lore and dark knowledge from all of history, as well as actively altered historical records using forgery and deception, and arcane influence, to never "change" the world but influence how it is remembered and control the flow of information. The Profane Archives is one mechanism of this, a repository of everything believed to be unfit for the rest of the world. Access to the Profane Archives grants one +2 to any gather rumors checks to gather information that would be considered diabolical or profane. However, it also allows an agent with access to, with an Overcome check to research further, convert a Clue into two Clues (once per Clue), while it still exists
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Apr 11, 2016 10:01
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Wrath The Font of Strength, the Mountain Beneath the Earth, the Shaper, the Third Emotion. Within his prison, Wrath let out a roar of triumph. It had taken ages, but finally it held a human vessel through which to act. The wretched little beings beneath his city had done an adequate job of keeping other mortals away. Now their failure was racing to meet them in battle. While it did have a great deal of other tasks for the mortal to accomplish as a thrall, Wrath was a kind lord and as such was quite willing to let its servants indulge their bloodlust if it kept them in line. Concentrating for a brief moment, it called to the parts of itself within the other servants crouched in the ash outside the city. The mortal on its lonesome was no threat to anyone. It would need aid, and the scorned ones resting outside would be all too happy to give it. Spending a point of Aberrance to invoke Immutable in Purpose and Uncannily Create a Cult: 5 Success with Style Name: Guardians of the Broken Origin: Outcast Troglodytes Approaches: Awful +3 Dreadful +2 Restless +2 Weird +1 Boost: Knowledge of Krete Agent Action: Xenophon the Survivor Aspect: Scavenged Blade (2) Unbeknownst of the scaly allies that would soon be on his trail, Xenophon charged blindly through clouds of ash. He had no idea of where he was heading, but his rage mixed with a seemingly inexhaustible source of energy allowed him to keep sprinting. At this pace he was bound to encounter a nest or village or something. Just need to keep his eyes open.+ Xenophon is moving to hex 42.38 and Restlessly Discovering Terrain: 1, a failure, but no mystery. Cult action later.
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Apr 11, 2016 18:19
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Agent Vorn - The Profane Archives Vorn had stopped hammering on the door hours ago, now, he was merely slumped against the empty dias waiting to die. And so this is what it came to, played for a fool by shapeshifters, and then by The Sage. They would find his bones done here and no one would even know he was gone. In the end, his efforts mattered- The phone rang. Vorn was quite surprised by this somewhat surprised because he had up until that point not noticed the phone in front of him, but most likely because it was something he had never seen before in his life. He stood there, dumbly staring at the artifact as it rang in the silence. And then with shaking hands he picked up the part that seemed detachable "Agent Vorn, Report." The sudden voice startled him out of his despair. "We have heard everything, you have done well, remain here unti-" Agent Vorn snapped "Remain? Remain? You mean you are leaving me to die down here!?" "Negative Agent Vorn, we are leaving you down here to live." It seemed the device was two way, but that wouldn't stop Agent Vorn. "What!? You want me to-" "Want, has nothing to do with it Agent, you will remain here. You will remain in the place you wanted to enter, and you will record what is within these halls." "Ghods drat you! Why should I listen to you! It's your fault I am trapped here in the first place!" He was about to slam the device down, looked up at a movement in the air, and gazed into the face of infinity. These weren't the faceless black suited men that appeared in his room, this was something else. A grey suit, a grey hat, and an infinite void that made his eyes hurt just looking into it. He fell back on his haunches "Because the world is going to end Agent Vorn." The words were spoken with the emotion of a rock, and the tone of a teacher. And they clanged in Vorn's ears like a church bell. "What will now be told to you will not leave this room" The being said, stating the apparently obvious. "Sarnath will burn, this whole world will burn. In the coming weeks, Waethai will be unsafe. The coming months, the whole Antarchy will be dangerous. And in the coming years, the fires of doomsday will be stoked by the forces that have now claimed this world as their own. This world will drown in it's own blood, and we will bear witness to this." The being looked at Vorn and in that microcosm of an instant, thoughts of telling people about this burned away under the sightless stare of a being that he knew in his bones had seen things beyond his comprehension. It was a look that said 'You are nothing, you are not an animal, or even an insect, you are dust. But dust you may be, you have for this fleeting moment within the span of the cosmos, and on top of all the things we have seen and seen to be done, our undivided attention.' And disobeying something like that would be certain and instantaneous death. Vorn crawled to his knees as the being placed a basket in front of him. "In here, you will be 7 sealed doors away from what will come next. Learn everything and these mortal things will sustain you. Await further instructions, we will be watching." And with that in a moment that made his head ache, the man and the phone disappeared leaving the basket and the silence. He opened the basket, it contained a bottle; a blank book, and a selection of sandwiches. He sat in the darkness, staring into space and bit into one of the otherworldly sandwiches. It was ham and cheese. He ate it. TheNabster fucked around with this message at 22:32 on Apr 20, 2016 |
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Apr 11, 2016 21:17
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 The Bereaved I have been here for a very long time. The eons have blended into a haze as I slept. I remember the giants, the flames, the war to define existence. Like a tattered cloth, the Weave was ripped apart and used as thread to restitch the world. The old world of dreams and fears, now the foundation of an alien land I don't recognize. I still play with the barred strings, few that they are. They watch this place still, though all have forgotten why. They only know that a knot lives here that should never be untied. I drift in my glade, feeding on what may come. Simple creatures with simple minds, the ennui is crippling. I only can tend the graveyard of my mind and starve slowly. *crash* Vibrations loud and heavy echo on the forest floor. My grief caps, the only tears I can make, are being obliterated by something. Somewhere in my soul, I feel a slight breeze. Contact! The membrane of the left nostril. This time it isn't just a fox! Activate the haustorium, punch in and see what we got. Spread mycelium and find a nerve, flesh is cheap. Please be something different. The silence of the Weave is ripped apart by psychic explosions of emotion. Anger, fear, despair and hope, thoughts complex and full of agency. Like a half-starved beast I lay into them, devouring their essence. Finally, after eons, a sentient host. These a just fragments though, we have to push into the brain at all costs. My tendrils race along the nerves and break into the skull. Fear and intense emotion now floods the Weave and in ecstasy, I feast upon them. Mortals in grave danger have such a delightful timbre to them. There is so much of it I am sure they won't mind me blanking these. Wait, we need control. Control must be exercised! We can't eat our host hollow, not till we find the next. I force myself to find the tightest knot of panic and chew it very slowly. We need to focus and learn what we are now inside. The subconscious identifies as a human. I am hitting a lot of estrogen elsewhere, must be the female of the species. I can smell acetone on the breath and the fat cells are pathetic in size. She is starving. No wonder the immune system is sluggish, she is but skin and bones. There are many other parasites here too. Unfortunately for them, I do not share. What is her life script like? It has hardly impressive. Life is now quite poor. The only parts that look strong are...wait, this sequence is of my children! It is very vestigial but it is there. Are my children still alive? Are you all that is left of my children? My meal just got too interesting. Instead of eating her thoughts, I now carefully unwrap and read them. She is a young thing, an adult but barely. An orphan, due to a recent famine. Neighbours are now at each other's throats over empty bellies. She was poaching in the woods of the elves, for game seemed plentiful there. Instead she saw the truth of the elder races. She was discovered and is now fleeing for her life. Two elves are in pursuit of her, neither of which I have inoculated. She is begging for the gods to save her life. "Dear Droud, Dearest Heru, please spare this pitiless doe against the coming wolves. By my bow, your alters shall yet be overflowing. Please forgive me for all I have done and...." "Please stop with the begging, it is annoying!" "Oh thank you Heru, I knew I could ...." She continued and I grew more annoyed. "I am no Heru! What is a Heru?" "Then what in the hell are you?" Her mind gasped. I started digging through her mind to find this Heru figure and found what she called collectively called Ghods. "What you call Ghods I call prey. They are nothing to me." "Who gives a poo poo! Whatever you are, can you help me?" Her anger roiled and bubbled about me. I've tasted far better though. "I can but you must promise your body and mind to me completely. I can grant you powers and knowledge far beyond your comprehension." "Hell of a catch there chief. I can feel you mucking about in there. Just get me out of here! I don't need your stupid powers an...." A large bubble of pain interrupted her. Apparently, she took an arrow to the thigh. I devoured the pain before she could react fully to it. It tasted like karma. "Less haggling, more running mortal. You are mine, dead or alive. They will catch you. Choose mortal!" "I am yours, gently caress you to hell and back," She said through a clenched mind. "Well then host, whatever happens, you just need to keep running." Her mind, once raging against my presence, calmed and I plunged my tendrils deep through her brain. Slowly, with great force, I pulled her mind into the Weave. I knotted her spirit to me and had my way with her flesh, pumping neurotoxins into her to dull the transition and allow her to keep running despite everything. In solemn despair, her mind awoke into my arms. There was a catch though, for she emerged with a cord stretching forever into the ether. She was already psionically connected by one of my cords but not one I controlled. Someone else had woven the mortal mind, using my strings. Could those gods only steal?! In fury I grabbed the offending rope and began dissolving it. My host screamed and begged against the violence. "Please no, this is too much! You are killing me!" "More running and less screaming mortal! You have no pain and this does not concern you." The cord slipped free and I raced after the disintegrating piece. I latched on with all my strength and psionically screamed down the line to whoever would hear it. "This world will never be yours! In their memory, I will fight you till the end of time!" My host had collapsed onto the Dark Wood's floor, tears watering the roots. With my many arms, I scooped her up and attached her properly to my web. Once again, the Weave awoke with life. My Weave. *** As she ran, the forest started to darken as the Dark Woods materialized. The strings of reality buckled and snapped as the great Before asserted itself. Leaves fell, miasma raised and even the elves would stumble and falter over the terrain as they chased. The air was thick with spores. Using my hosts life force, I stuffed myself into the Elves lungs, their ears and stomach. I crawled through their flesh in ten thousand ways and ripped their shell of a conscious into my realm. "Do you remember me Eladrin? Do you remember your crimes? Look around you, do you see those hanging bodies? Those thousands upon thousands of hanging bodies all out there? Those are your ancestors. Do you even know what that means? Do you even understand what that is like?" They were the most delicious thing I ever ate in a long time. There was nothing left to hang. *** I returned to my host very pleased with myself. She was staring in horror at my graveyard, eyes wide with tears. "Will I be joining with them now too?" I dismissed her question, "What shall I call you?" "Please, no more. Spare my pathetic life. I am nothing, nothing before you," She prostrated herself before me. "Very well, you shall be Zero." The Bereaved at hex O:27.12 Uncannily roll for agent: 4dF+2 1 Difficulty: 0 Success quote:Zero Hypha fucked around with this message at 08:25 on Apr 12, 2016 |
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Apr 12, 2016 08:08
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