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 recruitment closed  Eons Long and short of it, Eons is a godgame focusing on the microscope rules so a bit nontraditional from what I’m used to playing/running so it’ll be a welcome challenge and twist. For those playing that are unfamiliar with Microscope a quick synopsis is that each round, the players (including myself) will be adding small bits of stories to the overall lore of the game, structured into Periods, Events, and Scenes. You usually only provide one such submission each round of the game, unless you’re the Lens for the turn (which cycles each round like a 1st player marker) in which case you provide 1 submission first and 1 last, and also have the option of nesting a lower tier submission (so 4 total if you’re the Lens). The Lens each round will nominate what the Focus is for the round (i.e. the Focus being a cursed crown, so one player submits an event about a king dieing from it, and another might submit an event in a different period about a museum that holds said cursed crown). After each submission, the submitting player will indicate if it was Light, for a generally positive thing, or dark, for something ominous etc. After the Lens finishes the round with their 2nd submission, another player will create a Legacy by picking something that came up during this round and creates a Legacy with it, then creates an additional Event/Narrated scene involving one of the established Legacies. Then the next round starts. Periods cover large swaths of time, and are usually top level information inserted between 2 other periods. Within Periods are Events, which cover key detailed situations of said period. Within Events, are Scenes, which have the option of being narrated or roleplayed to answer a key question (who killed the king?) or even a leading question (why did the prince want to kill the king?). Because of this being a godgame focus, and having characters ontop of the usual microscope mechanics, you can use your deities in your submissions as much or as little as you want; your submissions could relate to your characters followers or even those who would rather have nothing to do with them. Because of the nature of the ever expanding timeline, you may or may not want to have certain entities beyond your divinities existing in multiple periods, because they could end up narratively existing far beyond what you had intended. Bookends At the start of the game, there are 2 periods that are noted as the Bookends, and the scope of the game falls between those. Those are open for debate and are a general consensus, I have no suggestions other than the opening Bookend be the default Birth of the Cosmos, and the closing Bookend being some sort of paradigm shift, i.e. the dispersal of godly energies to the mortals or something like that. Nothing set in stone for my suggestions. Godposts For the players including myself just to keep the opening of the game organized, post your God/Picture etc and offer a suggestion or two for themes or subjects you would like to or would not like to see in the game; that way if players get stuck they get an idea of what to spring off of (part of Microscope’s beginning of the game process). Note that the opening stories you create for your deities could either be something set in stone or things you’d like to play out and come to fruition within the game. Ill keep the first few posts reserved for organizing all the player submissions, go ahead and start off as the Lens once we get the characters submitted and Bookends figured out, and set up a rough player order. Banana Man fucked around with this message at 06:31 on Dec 31, 2019 |
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Dec 31, 2019 06:15
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quote:Deities quote:Already been Lenses quote:Previous Focuses quote:Narrative Suggestions Periods/Events/Scenes For sake of ease of reading, Periods and their corresponding events/scenes will be contained within a quote box, Periods being bolded and underlined, Events being underlined, and Scenes being italicized with a link to the post to save space. Banana Man fucked around with this message at 16:47 on Jan 29, 2020 |
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Dec 31, 2019 06:16
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quote:The Titanomancy – BOOKEND quote:The Resurgence, or the Age of Flowers-in-Ruins - The Unlife Aquatic quote:
quote:The Decline of the World Spine – Banana Man quote:The Preparation, or The Time of Sharpening Knives - LupusAter [/quote] quote:The Stagnation, or The Time of Secrets Withheld - AJ_Impy quote:The 'End of History'- ambivalent quote:The False End; or, Smoke, Ice, and Bones - MaxieSatan quote:The Ascension – BOOKEND Banana Man fucked around with this message at 16:42 on Jan 29, 2020 |
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Dec 31, 2019 06:16
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Dec 31, 2019 06:16
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Dec 31, 2019 06:17
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Iathagorm An ancient overdeity of storms and mountains, Iathagorm had ruled for an eternity away from this place. Eternity however, is a very long time and even his timelessness has worn and grated, entropy driving his energy to that of regional legend. Along with the loss of his power went his memories, and now he struggles to find place in a changing reality. What I’d Like to See: Lots of mortal efforts and results along side/despite godly efforts What I’d rather not see: Immortal mortals, unless it’s a curse Banana Man fucked around with this message at 06:26 on Dec 31, 2019 |
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Dec 31, 2019 06:17
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Adis Kalas Adis Kalas, the Remnant Eternal, born of death and failure. Her body is formed from the crushed, rotten bodies of mighty dragons and vast thickets; her shrines and churches consist of every building that has been abandoned and left to crumble. Many worship the Lady of Despair, but few realize it - and none of them would admit it. What I'd Like To See: Weird blends of magic and technology, the sort one might encounter in a Final Fantasy game or a Discworld novel; scheming mortals whose reach exceeds their grasp. What I'd rather not see: "On-screen" suicide, more as a practical measure than anything else. (It would be a little too convenient for a goddess of misery and decay, after all.) MaxieSatan fucked around with this message at 07:01 on Dec 31, 2019 |
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Dec 31, 2019 06:57
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Kamilisan Reval, the Princess of Power, the Baroness of Burning, the Lady of Lightning, the Exarch of the Eventual It is cold. It is dark. The forest groan-sings under the weight of snow. A woman holds a flint in her hand. She has been fighting with it for weeks. Her mind's eye can still remember the sparks, the way they made the undergrowth smoulder. She will remake that smouldering, no matter what the others grunt, or how they roll their eyes. Her hands go through the motions, again and again. The flint digs into her skin. She curses, pushing her sweaty red hair from her face. There has to be a way to do this. She tries again. Her hand slips. The flint falls. She watches. It strikes the other. Sparks. They leap into the kindling. There is smouldering. There is fire. The woman laughs. She dances, cackles, and finally runs back to group with a blazing stick. And in that moment, the woman is no longer quite mortal. She teaches what she knows gladly. Fire leads to cooking. Fire leads to pottery. Fire leads to safety in the long winter night. Grunts become words, words of worship. Soon, there is no mortal left. She is Kamilisan Reval, the Princess of Power, beloved by empress and engineer alike in modern days. The firebird who brings knowledge, the firebird who stole lightning from a geriatric Iathagorm and gifted it to mortals. But, even thousands of years later, she still remembers those winter weeks in the cold, and the dark. She will make sure no one else ever has to, no matter what it takes. Kamilisan is the goddess of Fire and Lightning, ascended from the first mortal woman to create fire. She is utterly obsessed with technology, progress, and burning down the past to build a greater tomorrow. She often struggles to with a lack of foresight, she still remembers the heady days when learning how to properly cook a haunch of meat saved lives from poisoning and starvation. Part of her is always chasing that high. She is fiercely protective of mortalkind. I wanna see high technology, maybe even getting into sci-fi and classic godgame drama. I'd really like to avoid a dark ending, or getting too nihilistic, the world is just a little too depressing for that sort of writing these days. (For me, at least)
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Dec 31, 2019 07:23
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Ethreil, He Who Draws The Borders Ethreil started as the instinct to protect your territory and what's yours. He then grew, and bestowed his blessings upon those who felt that their territory and what's theirs needed to expand. He is now a god of war, both to expand and to protect. He doesn't pick sides, but he gives equally: to the stronger, the might to vanquish those who oppose them; to the weaker, the speed to run and live to fight another day. What I'd like to see: Weird stories, gods being both incredibly vast and absurdly petty, mortals having to traverse their nonsense. What I'd like to avoid: A heavy, grim atmosphere for the sake of having it. This is a game, no sense in getting bogged down in pessimistic nihilism.
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Dec 31, 2019 10:48
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 Ospe, the Hearthtender, the Host In your home and in your shop, in the hostel and at the hearth, that is her domain. The grinning cat statue holding open the door at the bodega is her idol, as is the figurine tucked inside your grandmother’s spice rack. In every corner of your city, in every hut in your village, she has been there. Her favorites are the innkeepers, the bartenders, the maids and servants, for tending your own shelter is good, but preparing a shelter for others is divine. Her beasts are the small cats, for none so own domesticity as they. Ospe is depicted as smiling and warm. In some cultures and eras as a more sober domestic, others a gregarious reveler, and still some as a kindly housekeeper. She is never a great worker of miracles, or a source of epic ordeals - she is a purveyor of small comforts, a provider of modest protections - her displeasure and, rarely, wrath are reserved for poor hosts, ungrateful guests and those who betray the charity of their fellows. Never a powerful god, she is nonetheless widely present and serves as the speaker of the Fortunes, an ever-changing congress of small gods and great spirits that rise and fall, manifest and disperse almost nightly, but all tethered to various aspects of communities and society. She does not know of her creation, nor seem particularly concerned. Among gods, she is among the most peaceable, and is not so jealous of her domain which seems to wax and wane in breadth, and grows fuzzy with the prominence of particular Fortunes or other deities - at times she is strictly a domestic household deity, other times Ospe seems to hold all civics in her grasp. She is loathe to worry over it. She rarely undertakes any sort of great effort, but accompanies or assists other gods in theirs, and reserves her disfavor for those making a hard lot for mortals. What I Would Like To See: Mortals! Tales of People and their Brushes With Gods What I'd Like To Avoid: I don't even know, by golly. Don't know if I did this right in terms of scope or conception. Ambivalent fucked around with this message at 08:46 on May 13, 2021 |
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Dec 31, 2019 14:05
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Valakia - The Sublime, The One and Pinnacle, The First Lord, The Immortal Sun, The Overgod Ever since the beginning, none have gazed upon perfection.Valakia knows this for fact, for there is no perfection other than them, and their luminance is far too bright for mere sight to pierce. Valakia lies at the Center, facing the planets and comets and the firmament from their eternally unmoving throne, eyes ever gazing outward towards Creation, their flawed reflection, for that glimpse of unblemished, fundamental beauty that is their essence. None have yet presented themselves. Valakia is the Sun God of Light, Beauty and Rulership, and lays claim to the title of Creator, that spawned immaculately into a perfect void, and only created reality to serve as a mirror to their glorification, for even they did not know the details of their perfect form. Indeed, the Sun Scripture states that everything and everybody that exists, up and including the other Gods, are naught but flawed reflections of Valakia. There is no proof that this is actually the case, but the Immortal Sun does not suffer contradiction to their Will. Their Will is Myth, and their Myth is Truth. I'd like to see, other than the usual drama between gods, more focus on the mortal side of things and how our meddling affects them, since Microscope allows for that. No need to get pointlessly grim about it as others have noted (though a little grim is fine  )
Theantero fucked around with this message at 12:54 on Jan 1, 2020 |
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Dec 31, 2019 14:24
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Nerucic - Granter of Shade, Truthguardian, That Which Protects and Refreshes When the first absolute truth was made manifest, it was upon Nerucic that the task of shielding the rest of creation from its harshness fell. Not to deny it, but to occlude and obscure it, letting it filter through but in a palatable, meaningful way. Nerucic is the cloud that comforts, the rains that refresh the land, respite from the sun in the heights of summer and from the bitterest cold in the depths of winter. That which is true is theirs to know and theirs to safeguard, kept secret but kept safe so that those who would have need of it need but ask. Nerucic is the divine suzerain of Clouds, Protection and Secrets. Generally benevolent to all beneath the clouds both literal and metaphorical, they take their guardianship role extremely seriously. The truth cannot be allowed to be warped into falsehood, nor used only in part to cause harm. Such things earn Nerucic's ire, and can lead to the removal of their benign hand from those who transgress. Nerucic is subordinate to truth, and cannot alter it. What I'd like to see: Lots of divine interaction and clear continuity. What I'd like to avoid: Isolation or deliberately avoiding interaction.
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Dec 31, 2019 19:12
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Talruyat, Recordkeeper of Sins, The First Witness The being that would become Talruyat was born when the first life was taken. Grief and anger formed a baleful gaze with a name spoken only in wails. When societies began forming, those wails became a chorus, for cruel acts were now a violence committed against a group, not just an individual. The eye became many. As mortals advanced, and grievances could be written, sins were remembered across generations, feuds expanding to tribes and nations. The eyes read it all, and remembered. Life and society expands, and with it a new need emerges. Talruyat saw in mortalkind a desire for recognition. Praise for good deeds, punishment for cruel ones, just someone to see them in their entirety. It was a need that could not be met by law and society. A different approach was needed. And so Talruyat split his gaze in two directions. One looks upon the lands of the living, examining both kindness and cruelty in equal measure. The other traces the roads to the many afterlives, made manifest by his fellow deities. Through judging the acts of the living, he determines the appropriate paths for the dead. Talruyat sits on the precipe of life and death. Watching until the day where his eyes might finally close. What everyone else wants and dislikes more or less covers my own thoughts so I think I'm good.
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Dec 31, 2019 23:09
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quote:The Resurgence, or the Age of Flowers-in-Ruins - The Unlife Aquatic
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Jan 1, 2020 00:52
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quote:The False End; or, Smoke, Ice, and Bones - MaxieSatan
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Jan 1, 2020 01:13
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quote:The Stagnation, or The Time of Secrets Withheld - AJ_Impy
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Jan 1, 2020 01:49
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Jan 1, 2020 04:03
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quote:The Preparation, or The Time of Sharpening Knives- LupusAter
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Jan 1, 2020 10:26
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quote:The 'End of History' - ambivalent Ambivalent fucked around with this message at 10:59 on Jan 1, 2020 |
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Jan 1, 2020 10:35
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quote:The Enmity of Sun and Sky - Theantero
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Jan 1, 2020 12:50
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Round 1 focus: battles of iathagorm - anything having to do with the current/past battles alongside/against iathagorm, including references to battles long past or repercussions still felt.
Banana Man fucked around with this message at 06:18 on Jan 5, 2020 |
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Jan 1, 2020 21:17
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The Battle of the World Mountain – Banana Man The Prime of Laughter, an ancient enemy of the World’s Past had returned, threatening the lands that Iathagorms people had long toiled. Ancient and Blind, Iathagorm struggled mightily against the Prime upon the World Mountain, greatest constructive (rather than destructive) feat he had accomplished. After a titanic battle and a thunderous crack that split the mountain, both the Prime of Laughter and Iathagorm lay defeated upon the land. This event is light because the Primes were/are a calamitous force, and a relic of godwar seemingly long forgotten till now.
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Jan 1, 2020 21:53
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The Defeat of the Prime of Laughter - Banana Man Question to be answered: What did the people of Harat, City At the Foot of the Mountain do after the battle? A tempest around the mountain cracks and shakes the land below it. A storm without lightning, but thunder old and ancient rolling around the World Mountain, it’s dark blue stone channeling torrents of water down it. A gargantuan foot presses into the stone shattering it as a blind Iathagorm braces against the Prime. Energy seeps from their horrible wounds as they both cast all their might. “This is for my first eye,” he rumbles. He hunkers down and peforms a godly suplex upon the prime into the Mountain, cracking it, sending shockwaves for miles as huts are lifted off the ground and stoneworked buildings shatter. Then there is only the sound of the storm, once raging but growing calmer. Both forms remain unmoving. The storm turns to a blowing summer rain, and the First of the Mountain from Harat approach the figures; their essence had pooled into ponds and streams. They move silently, as per their oath, and begin to collect the essence into specially sealed containers of Elearan making. this scene is dark because of the impure prime essence being preserved.
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Jan 1, 2020 21:55
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The Return of the Prime of Laughter - MaxieSatan, with The Unlife Aquatic as Lady Rescia, Doctor of Ichoric Phyiks. Question to be answered: What was sacrificed to summon the Prime of Laughter from its prison? ------ Adis Kalis, in mortal guise, stalks the shining hallways that have been built into the mountain. Dissatisfaction is rare in these times, but it is there if you know where to look for it - some mortals cannot live without a problem to solve, while others can never truly have enough. Here, in the cracks within the world, she can taste it. Insatiable longing for something More. Directionless longing, so easy to bend just so. The central office is just ahead. She smooths out her labcoat and knocks gently on the window. Lady Rescia, Doctor of Ichoric Phyiks, feels useless, powerless. She stares at the paperwork on her desk, accusing her. That was all science was for her these days, paperwork on paperwork that authorized more paperwork. She yearns for the days of discovery, when Ichoric Phyiks seemed like the key to a thousand doors. She is resigned to the paperwork, she will complete it. So she pours herself another cup of tea, and begins to work. Adis knocks again, more insistently this time. "Doctor Rescia? It's me, Lamira. I wanted to ask you about something." "Come in, come in." The doctor sighs, and rubs her temples. Yet another annoying task. "Lamira" enters, and gives a small wave. She slouches and wears a nervous but well-meaning expression, and clutches a stack of papers in the crook of her arm. "Doctor. You don't seem well. Is something wrong?" "It's fine. It's fine. Just Ichor Requsition Forms." Adis approaches, looks over her shoulder. She nods. "They are dull, aren't they? And then once you have the ichor you have to fill out more forms to use it, and then a whole report that just says you didn't find anything interesting." She pauses for a moment, pretending to think. "Actually, I'm not too busy right now - just wanted you to take a look at some of my own research. I could take care of those forms for you in the meantime, if you want?" "No, no, no. You know what Investigations Interious would say." "Mm. I suppose it's the only interesting thing they have to do. Still -" She places a stack of papers on the table, and slides it to Doctor Rescia. "Take a look, will you? If only as a break." The top page reads: "On Harnessing the Source of Laughter" Rescia raises an eyebrow. "Laughter? Why laughter? We've been studying throat-singing. The resonate effects on the arcanic fields have been the best lead we have." Back to the paperwork. The only sounds are quill scratches. "I don't know, I just... Feel like the world needs it, you know? People are comfortable, but they could be happier." She leans in. "You could be happier, Doctor. You haven't laughed in weeks. You haven't seen your family since last Midwinter." "Laughter is a privilege of the young, assistant Lamira," she says, a little defensively. "And the Fae is fine, sent a new daguerreotype last week." Adis continues, undeterred. This is where she shines. "A privilege of the young, yes. A privilege of a happier time. When you still thought you could change the world. When the job was challenging, interesting." She reaches over and lifts a framed picture off the desk. "Ah, yes. That one there is your child, isn't it? And the other one, hm, a niece, a young cousin?" It takes all her willpower to sound sympathetic instead of sadistic. "They've grown so much in so little time, haven't they?" "Children do that." Rescia says, bitterly. "They do. And you only have so much time. Before they leave, to pursue their own careers. And then they get lost in a world without laughter. Without dreams. Without challenges." Adis shrugs and reaches for the research. "If you don't even want to read it, I can always take it back. I just thought you might be interested in something new. Something that would challenge you, that would make the world a better place. That would secure your name in the history books. "But if you'd rather get back to those forms, hm... don't let me bother you." She looks up again at the papers. She thumbs past the first page. "So how did you compensate for the lack of resonance?" Adis goes back to the act - eager, excited, helpful. "Ah, well! This is still only theoretical, but by using cobalt pipes instead of steel or lead, and increasing the energy expenditure, we can achieve equivalent resonance." She sighs. "The only issue is, to generate that much energy, you would need... Well, more output than most research stations are capable of. But I think this one, if you ran the geothermal plant at full blast, and used a large enough crystal capacitor, you might be able to achieve a breach!" "A breach?! Do you know how much paperwork that would cause? They would have my head!" "You have a mountain of paperwork now. This would get you recognition. It would bring laughter back to your life, and the lives of others. It would forever change our understanding of the world around us!" Rescia stares over the papers at Lamira. "I suppose...." She keeps reading, and reading... and reading...... her eyes move faster. She licks her lips, the sign she's concentrating. "This is... this is ingenious... wait... wait... "Why are you handing this to me? You could arrange this yourself, keep the glory." "Not as easily as I could with your help. And there are still a couple of points I wasn't sure about." (Left in on purpose. Difficult enough that they wouldn't seem suspicious, but well within Rescia's grasp.) "I was hoping you could help me revise and edit the proposal, split the paperwork with me. We can publish as co-authors." She smiles. "It's what you deserve after so much time toiling in obscurity, Doctor." Rescia looks up again. "A researcher doesn't just hand over an author credit like that, what are you really here for?" Adis looks down and sighs, pretending to be ashamed. "...I don't have any way of getting the capacitor. It would be too costly for me alone, and even if authorizing the project would be easy, Interious would never approve the expense. But I know you're a bit more... solvent than I am, and between the two of us..." "Of course, darling. We can work this out, together." She says with a sweet, fake smile. "Oh-ho, that's interesting. What's this component, Lamira?" She points to something complex, something terrible. The core of Adis's scheme. It crawls across the page almost, held there only by the goddess's will. "Oh, that? Just a new aether configuration array I've been working on, some criss-crossing ichor piping, and some interlinked sigils based on the principles of the Octal Array." A red flag, that last one. But it could work without causing issues. It might not create too large a breach, or attract the attention of the Primes. And that's just enough for the Doctor to lie to herself about the danger. ------ An alarm wails, a terror of bells, and in the carved shale walls there is screaming. Something dark is coming, something that smells like old rags and last breaths and the ragged hormones of dying. In an arcanic control room Lady Rescia stifles a scream. A hand reaches in the test chamber, three fingers and two thumbs, pressed in opposite directions. An ancient hand. Older than the stars, she can feel it behind her eyelids. It screams words into her mind, words in the shape of laughter. There is a taste in her mouth, of oil and bile, something rancid. She feels like laughing. The Remnant Eternal wanders through the halls, having shed her mortal skin. Here and there, pipes have burst, showering the floor in ichor that will never be recovered. The geothermal plant shakes and rattles, venting steam and leaking magma. The crystal capacitor that Rescia spent so much on is cracked beyond repair. Most of the arcanists, unfortunately, escaped - but a few, at least, are slouched over, cackling at a joke only they can hear. Adis smiles as she approaches the Doctor. "Thank you so much for your help, child. I'll make sure you're properly credited." "YOU! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH LAMIRA?!" She hisses. Behind her, the hand bubbles with mouths. They laugh. She wants to laugh. She does, crying the whole way. The truth: Lamira was never here. She's been at home in bed for a week, having come down with a minor strain of Adis' Touch, inflicted by the venom of a rare wasp. But that would give Rescia comfort. She would know that at least her collaborator, her friend, was alive and well. So what Adis says is: "Please, Doctor. After so many years of thankless work, she was easily converted to my cause. I just needed to promise her a little bit of fame and excitement, and she was practically hurling herself at my feet." The goddess laughs. "Hey, you two have a lot in common, now that I think about it!" "This won't work. Th-" She cackles. "-here are others. M-maybe I was a fool." She's crying now. "Ma-maybe I'm going to die. But yo-you" Another cackling fit. She falls to her knees. Her hand hitting the last safety alarm as she follows. "The Baroness will come, and she will sto-s--" There are no more words, only laughter and crying. In the distance, there is fire. An angry, purifying flame, crackling with thunder. "Perhaps you're right, Doctor. She can't make things worse than you and your assistant already have." Adis Kalas turns and walks away, and the halls are filled with laughter. ------ The lab is destroyed, the Prime is unleashed, and Iathagorm is now destined to die in battle - this scene is Dark. MaxieSatan fucked around with this message at 02:38 on Jan 2, 2020 |
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Jan 1, 2020 23:28
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Titanomachy Ultima or Let-This-Be-Your-Last-Battlefield Valakian Played by Theantero, Ianthgorm's body and the Eye Lighting played by Banana Man, and Kamilisan Reval, played by the Unlife Aquatic. Question: Who grieved the hardest after Ianthgorm's downfall? Answer: Kamilisan Reval The living landscape heaves and shudders as thunderclaps fill the air; boulders to large to describe come crashing down within feet of Kamilisan. Thunderous blows light the form in twisting blue light; far above, the right eye of Iathagorm blazes. Shitshitshit Kamilisan is late. All around her are the sounds of battle, carried in the shatter-jaw canyons, sandstone stained red. It carries echoing screams to her, through the heavy morning mist that refuses to lift. Corpses stare at her behind the rough hewn copper helmets of Ianthgorm's troops. The battle is somewhere else, for now. A foot slams down on the plateaus above. A hoof, for the moment. There is a roar, far above, like the sound of the world itself cracking. She pulls a grappling hook and rope off her shoulder. Weighs them, checks them. She spins the weight in her hands, tenderly at first. Her speed slowly gathers. She tries to level out her breathing, all the dust wasn't helping. Neither the corpses or the screams and sobs of the dying. Some of them still hold rattling breath. She grits her teeth, and throws the hook upwards. It latches onto an armor plate. At least something was going right today. She gives it a tug, and then starts to climb up the canyon walls. The ground rushes out beneath Kamilisan as the rope goes taught, wind ripping through the air as the leg it was hooked to rockets into the other figure; far below with a sickening spinning the ground cracks and geysers of blood and bone spray out. The world was seemingly ending. Kamilisan wants to cry. She wants to scream. She does none of those things. They need her, they all need her. (Somehow) Why was she here? Why wasn't it the stag? Or Nerucic? Or literally anyone else? She's no one, before Nerucic spoke to her she'd never even had a real conversation with a deity that wasn't her getting yelled at to do something. One hand after the other. Up through the mist. A ruined minaret eyes her, for a moment, before disappearing back into the mist. There is only twine, her hands, and the weight of the sword on her back. A heavy obsidian blade that caught every color in its reflection. Nerucic swore it could harm a god. Kamilisan still had her doubts. A hoof forms in the mist above. She stares at it, one hand in front of the other. There's still screaming below, flashes of light from magic firing back and forth across battlelines. The hoof smells like death and rot and ruin, but it is solid, it is real. The only real thing she's seen in what feels like forever. When she reaches the top of her grappling hook, she whistles to it. It leaps back to her shoulder, the rope wrapping itself around like a pet. Another useful gift from the cloud-deity. She looks up, and cannot even see a knee joint through the mist. Wind threatens to tear her from her perch. Lightning strikes the perch, a hum of thousands of screams as a gargantuan whip of souls sails past to curl up into the heavens for a strike that hurts the air Kamilisan breathes. The blue light of the eye above radiates in the mist, seemingly beginning to match her heartbeat. "gently caress. You." She whispers under her breath. The stone seems to form in shapes for favorable for holding onto; rocks and crevices turning and twisting to form steps and handholds while the larger form of Iathagorm continues its violent assault on existence. Up, again. Her fingers ache. Her heart pounds. Her mouth is so dry it hurts. The wind threatens to tear her off the leg again. But she keeps going upwards, and through the mist, she can see the shape of the sun. A dreadful, terrible sun. Just another drat egomaniac. The Sun glared back down on Kamilisan, but not on her in particular. It stared down on all Creation with a merciless, silent gaze that bleached and flayed all it touched. Seas boiled, earth cracked, the very atmosphere itself was being scoured into the empty void. But there were no words, no proclamations. There was no need for words, for The Words had already been spoken. And they could never be taken back. Even in the mist and the shadow, even for a demigoddess of fire, the heat is oppressive. She can feel her skin burning as she crawls up. Towards the back of a knee joint and a little outcropping that juts from it. She hoists herself up, and gives herself a moment of rest. A canteen from her hip, she pours it over her face, and then takes a greedy gulp. She was still close enough to mortal that hunger and dehydration meant things. There is a roar in the mist. "Why can't any of you talk to each other like adults?" She mutters under her breath. And then back to the climb, across the leg as the handholds turn to smooth armor again. Towards the front, and towards danger. She can only hope Valakian doesn't accidentally impale her with a javelin of light. Kamisalan is protected, once again, by her perceived insignificance, as gouts of solar wind and bolts of punishing light destroy what mere crushing heat cannot. There is a crack, and a shudder, as a bolt impacts Iathagorm. But it is not aimed at her, just as you would not aim at a gnat on your enemy’s cheek. The soul whip cracks through the air and death is felt by things that can’t think and the ground lurches, yet the landscape of iathagorm continues to shape a path before Kamilisan, now a humming coming from the eye. It beckons in a haunting whisper somehow above the deafening sounds. The sound digs into her head. It almost sings to her. The voice of a woman, gentle and furious in the same breath. Blue light caresses her, ever so gently. She watches the lances slam into the mountain around her. It lets out another low roar. Far below, something crumbles. Many people scream. Another few hundred on her conscience. She doesn't let herself dwell anymore. All she does is touch the blade on her belt. It's hungry and cold. Cold in a way nothing should be. Saltwater runs through her veins. Blood from her cut fingers drips on her face, threatening to boil in this heat. Legs give way to ornate pieces of armor, made of gems and veins of metal and whole mountainsides. She needs the grappling hook again, throwing it high, and letting it latch on some anonymous object higher in the mist. She begins to climb again. Valakia met Iathagorm’s eye with their own, the undivided attention of the Sun forming a luminous pillar of pure contempt reaching up to the heavens. Kamilisan finds where the hook took purchase, a courtyard seemingly hewn from the stone. Here, the form of iathagorm did not fluctuate or move despite the chaos around it. The hook found itself caught in the petrified skull of some previous hero, long forgotten by a forgotten people. There are many other such skeletons here in various states of decay and petrifaction, some fused to the structure of the courtyard. They all look to the eye. Each step Kamilisans footsteps become heavier. The sky sickeningly spins yet you do not fall as Iathagorm bends to pull the ground away from itself, thousands of tiny figures being flung away as distant screams are heard. From the hole in the ground, as it lurches, the Choirs are revealed within the crust, Those That Sang when the world was formed, but now they too scream. She didn't have long. If the Choir went, they all went. Minutes, maybe before one of these crazy beasts hit them as collateral. Darkness forever as reason it self was rent to ribbons. Everything for naught. She had minutes, maybe. No time to stop and investigate (even if some of the skeletons are clearly some of the same sort of proto-humans as she) She tears the hook from the heroes skull, and throws it again, into the endless blue, towards the tyrant-avalanche's face. It finds purchase on his cheek. She tugs, once, twice. He had to feel that. It doesn't matter now. She scrambles up the rope, sweat pouring from her face, breath sickly-sweet in her mouth. Dust storms pick up around them. She coughs. The blue is close now, So close. She can see the ornate murals in the tyrant-avalanches armor, all cast in that horrible blue light that screams in her head. Her fingers find purchase on it's face. There is a violent shaking, and the grappling hook and rope disappear into the mist below. She would curse, but she couldn't risk it. She had once chance. It's so close now. The sterile, white glow of hatred up above grows ever stronger as Kamisalan makes her way forward, burning away not just the bones, but their history. Memory of deeds and songs past sublimate to the aether as petrified bones crumble to ashes under the gaze of indignant divinities. Soon, the air itself will combust. “Yess we are yours now” the eye hums into Kamilisans head. Suddenly Iathagorm stops, almost confused, and a horrific silence settles across the field as he stands holding the gargantuan chunk of the world above him. The eye focuses on Kamilisan. Sounds of distant screaming from far below drift up to you, the rain lightly blowing. "SHUT UP!" Kamilisan screams. The sound in her head is deafening. Rustling stone. He heard that. An earthquake rumbles through the form and then is realized as a chest rattling laughter as Iathagorms hand curls into a flicking motion and sails sickeningly quickly to his face. The eye laughs. The Choir laughs. The chunk of the world held mightily in his other hand. Time slows down. She's burning inside, burning everything left of her mortal body. She draws the blade. Her eyes go up, towards chains - holding the corpses of heroes. She looks back at the eye, sword in hand. It hums. The eye hums. This is the dumbest thing she's ever done. Fire wraps around her hand, around the chain. She runs across the mountain-face, blade shining in a thousand colors. It vibrates in her hand. There is fire behind her. Mountain in against her. Lightning in front of her. It sings in her head. No thoughts left. Chain to chain. Her fingers are slip. Break and shatter. Only fire left. Closer. So close. A jump. All blue. Blood streams down her ears. Blue. "gently caress! YOU!" She screams. CRACK The blade sinks into blue. Infinite blue. Lines race across it, like cracks in lake ice. It's so beautiful. And then, there is blood. A fountain of black ichor surging through the mist, cutting into the blue light. There is a scream. Pain. Infinite pain. The black liquid screams towards the world, wreathed in blue fire. Bubbling, hissing, screaming. Something moves in it. Red flames. Lightning. It ripples across the sky, weaving itself into wings. All below stare. Another scream. Ianthgorm falls to it's thousand knees. There is an explosion. All the flames in the universe. All the lightning. All the energy. In one moment. Everything is violent. Everything is bright. And then, there is a goddess. She crashes into the world, hiding the Choir between her wide wings. Light scours every living eye, but they live. Creation lives. Ianthgorm sobs hysterically, and the bird rises again. "YOU! POMPOUS STAR WHO WAS SECONDS AWAY FROM DESTROYING CREATION!" It screams in a voice now etched into Ianthgorm's mind forever. "YOUR WAR IS OVER! LEAVE OR HE WILL NOT BE THE ONLY THING TO GO BLIND TODAY!" Her talons, made of the same terrible obsidian, shine in Valakian's light. "AND MOST IMPORTANTLY...gently caress. YOU." The mountain that is Iathagorm tumbles slowly away, blinded and silenced, falling into the depth of the darkness beyond the choir. It seems to take a lonnng time. The undivided focus of Valakian was on Kamisalan, now, as if noticing her for the first time, but even their focused glare hurt her less, now, than their diffuse presence earlier. They considered her for a moment, almost pensive, before shifting their attention to the newly prone form of Iathagorm, and glaring down on him with derision. “ALL MUST LIE BEFORE THE KING”, they boomed across Creation, echoing the The Words spoken in the beginning, “ALIVE OR DEAD.” “THE WAR IS OVER, AND I CLAIM MY INEVITABLE VICTORY AT LAST.” Their focus shifted on Kamisalan, again. “BASK IN THE GLOW OF VICTORY AND DIVINE ASCENDENCE, MY INSTRUMENT. CERTAINLY YOU HAVE EARNED IT.” And just so, the bleaching white glare of a furious sun turned to an imperious, golden shade that was the color of Victory. A fanfare of light to the glory of the Sun, sang over fields of death and ruin. So ended the Titanomachy. And when Valakian was gone, when he went back to his throne at the center of all creation, the firebird fell to the ground. Kamilisan's first act as a true deity was to save creation. Her second was to sob. --- Creation is saved, even at a terrible cost. This scene is Light (supposedly) The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 09:12 on Jan 3, 2020 |
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Jan 3, 2020 04:28
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The Parting of the ways, an event during the Titanomachy. - Nerucic played by AJ_Impy, Iathagorm played by Banana Man. Question: What did Iathagorm say or do that got the infamously neutral and inert Nerucic to take action? Storm and Cloud were long allies and associates, despite their differing natures. Thus it was that Nerucic crossed words with Iathagorm early on in the war, in a futile attempt to avert disaster and avoid taking direct action in this, the first time Truth required it of them. "Iathagorm. We speak at this time. Our words are heavy with portent. Our dialogue will be to no avail." Iathagorm nods slowly, a thunderclap and a rumble in the distance. A blue eye and a red eye burn from within deep caverns on his face as he regards Nerucic. "So it has been fortold..." He sits silently for an eon, paused in reflection, before turning his head upward again, "Was it by you?" His brow furls as he looks closer at Nerucic. "Have we done this before?" A rumble and a slow chuckle as rain starts to fall. "I exercise great caution in not speaking prophetically out of time, but this does echo an earlier conversation that ensured we reached this point. It went well, too. I regret the loss of those days and their carefree nature." replied the manifestation within the nimbus, paler clouds within the storm. A rumbling chuckle continues; storm clouds gather on the horizon. "Those days were good, but they had to end." Iathagorm chuckles, gesturing to a a carved door on his shoulder. "Locked again, not that I could read it...though it is comforting to know your words are carved in here." The chuckle again, "Woe to the adventurer that comes to read them." He stands slowly from the grassy plain he has sat in for some number of summers. zombie:His peaked and craggy head joining the clouds. "If we're talking now, at this spot, at this time..." he taps the red eye with a tink," then this means I have to give this to you." "The eye of the storm, yes." A pause from the Truthguardian, discomfort radiating from them. "I have always known the path that must be taken, but I do not relish traversing it in this case. Grim times lie ahead. So much suffering due to your clash with Valakia. I would do everything in my power to refuse that orb, to insist you reconcile, to end the harm caused before it begins. The destination for that orb more than most." "Would I carry it...already its poison has clouded even myself," Iathagorm whispers through broken rock. He gazes at Valakia, though His light does warm the cliffs and slopes of his dark form. "To take something from a Prime and to use it..." he stops again. Birds circle through the clouds and land on his brow while he thinks. "Was a mistake we all had to make. Though I'm glad to have hid yours from you." He taps the door. "I'd rather give you a lie than the truth, to shoulder some of your burden." "My burden is too vast to share with any not conformed to it at the point it came into being. I cannot accept a lie. You have absorbed the bulk of the poison. It is to be rendered into a form less harmful to its momentary bearer, but she will be hit with a full dose much later, and will direct hatred into herself for much of eternity. But that is a tale for another time, a path that will not cross yours for most of an age, and will not be recognised when it does. More relevant to the here and now is this: I beseech you to make accord with Valakia. Reality would not survive your unimpeded struggle. To follow this path blindly is an experience you will regret at leisure." The cloud billowed around the crimson orb, the transfer of custody unavoidable. With a clunk it pulls out of the socket and into the sky. Iathagorm lurches for a moment. "If reality withers away it is better than the Primes returning." The wind grows. "You may be able to witness it, but I cannot anymore. Not again. Not as many times as it's happened." He looks up at his once-ally. "Regret is for the mortals that scamper below us." "You know that I serve only the Truth. Reality will not truly wither, not in totality. The mortals are under my protection, save those whose mortality is at an end. You will not fare well, but I do so want to bid you to. This is our parting of the ways for this era." The cloud rose, and at its heart, the orb transfigured. Warped into shards of stone, carried far within the cloud, to some unimportant undergrowth in the vicinity of some barely-sapient wildlife. This is a dark event, representing a sundering of a long partnership.
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Jan 3, 2020 11:13
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The Festival of Fighting - event in the Resurgence One of the largest gatherings of the mortals, this is a festival that lasts for summers; a way to collectively rid themselves of generational horror. Teams are set up from each side, reanactments abound for various stand-ins for the Titanomancy. All gather to the peaks of the fallen and slumering Iathagorm, now thought of as a holy and reverant place. This event is Light because of the sense of community.
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Jan 4, 2020 02:15
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The Pie Eating Contest in the Courtyard Question to be answered: Who stole the pies? Grumpy Bill and Pots, known for their rivalry both in their trade of smithing and their attitude toward one another were the last to "fight" in a round robin pie eating contest. Both stood grimacing, Grumpy Bill rumbling and covered in dirt from the smithy, and Pots yelling while his golden hair flew brilliantly. Grumpy Bill growled, "This be me contest, Pots!" "CONTESTS ARE MEANT TO BE WON BY THE RIGHTEOUS!" Pots hollered. They both turned to the tables within the hewn courtyard, now covered in vines and grasses despite what ages past had scene. But the tables were empty. From a cave beyond, a loud rumbling belch was heard. A light rain that seemed to say, "Thank you," lazily dripped on the festivities until everyone had to go home.
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Jan 4, 2020 02:16
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The Bridge, a focus A massive river cuts through much of a major continent, wider than any other in most places. Over the course of history, no fewer than five nations have had their capital at some point along the river's length. Just before the river widens into the delta, there is a bridge that spans the gap. Always crumbling, always rebuilt, the bridge has taken shapes and forms unique to it's eras. Someone built it. Someone destroyed it. Someone built it again. It has been the site of pivotal events that changed the course of an era, and an almost infinite number of smaller, personal tales aside. The bridge has had many names, only a few more than the river itself.
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Jan 4, 2020 06:26
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The Surrender of the Provinces - an event during the Decline of the World Spine When the sky changed overhead, and the great armored Custodians and the hulking landships ground to a halt, when the strandwork went quiet, the Empire of the Spine lost the means with which to hold onto it's power. At the great Span that bridged the Gold River, or the River Mto, a representative of the Empire, flying the banner of the Stag, negotiated terms with representatives from a number of provinces, who themselves raised that same banner. There in the city that was called Lhasa then Castorum then Lhasa again, they signed an agreement that signaled the dissolution of the Empire as a world power. This is a light scene - in a dark time of diminishing power, this is the peaceful resolution to foreign rule for the people in those regions. Ambivalent fucked around with this message at 07:48 on Jan 4, 2020 |
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Jan 4, 2020 06:29
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The Last Imperial Governor Question to be answered: What did the crumbling of the Empire look like? On either bank, the heat in the cities had grown sweltering, turning them into soupy, humid messes. Here, in the middle of the Span, the air was cooler - not quite refreshing, but there was a breeze. The Imperial governor Orleen sat at the table in what had once been the customs office here at Market Square, the pavillion fixed on here on the middle support of the great Span. The western bridge was packed full, noisy and loud, celebratory. She could hear music, drums and horns. A festival. Flashes of colored banners - she knew the sigils from the tax forms - flags from Ogada, Obi Ndo, Sha Ti, Chiara Ti, Bele. A few others she didn’t recognize. They called the city Fhasa now, claiming that had been the name before the Empire’d taken the Span. That was a long time ago, and Orleen didn’t recall the name from her history instruction, but it could be true. The eastern bridge had all the mood of a funeral procession. About a third of the troops left of the garrison in what she still called the city of Castorum had cordoned off the bridge. The Custodians they’d still managed to coax into working after they’d lost the Spine’s grace were all assembled, the great machines towering tall and imposing still on the Span’s avenue. Irritably, Orleen noticed a fair few number of soldiers had removed their helmets and taken seats on the bridge, seeking shade and relief from the heat. No sense in discipline today, maybe. The guest of honor and his guard arrived, a solid, scarred man with a heavy gait, the silhouette of the stag-crown embroidered on either side of his vest. The same iconography adorned her own spaulders. It made her laugh a little. The provinces here hadn’t fought a single battle, but they hadn’t needed to, so obviously the Stag had made his choice. The man seemed familiar, maybe she’d seen him - likely last tax season. A clerk - one of the customs officers - brought two bowls, a bowl of salt and a bowl of water, first to the governor. Orleen dipped her index finger in the salt, licked it clean, then washed it in the water. Her guest did the same. She nodded and flashed a friendly smile, “Let us speak peaceably now, you are my guest.” All this, to conclude the Rite of Ospetality, so they could negotiate terms in good auspice. The man chuckled, “And when we are done, you will be our guest.” The smile fell from Orleen’s face, and the provincial militiamen laughed at that too. Still, her guest licked his finger clean of salt and sat at the table. The governor gestured to the clerk, who then brought the stacked vellum, “As you say. There are some small conditions, a few minor provisos, mainly with regards to access to the sea and the Span from up the Gold River, the… Mto River.” Her guest sniffed, a little contemptuous of the notion of terms - but not outright dismissive. “Minor assurances, requested on behalf of the capital, before we…” she clears her throat, “...withdraw the garrison and cede control of Castorum to your, um, provincial authority.” And that was it. Governor Orleen would be the last to hold her post. No battles had been fought but only because the outcome was obvious, even if the cause was not. In one night, the sky above them had changed a shade of color, and the Custodians and landships had begun to falter, the strandwork had gone silent. They’d been forced to use couriers to attempt to exchange messages with the capital, and those had been long in coming. With a provincial militia mustered against them, the numbers simply did not work for the Empire. In Ethreil’s name, they would take what was theirs. And, Orleen noted to her chagrin, it was in Ethreil’s name would she and her forces be withdrawing. Ambivalent fucked around with this message at 12:51 on Jan 4, 2020 |
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Jan 4, 2020 08:35
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Sunrise of Empire - Theantero It is taught, in the Imperial Schola, that when the First Emperor came to conquer the city then known as Fhasa, the defenders had, in a last ditch attempt, destroyed the great Span to halt the legions. The First Emperor had not been fazed, however, but boldly strode into the city, on a bridge that rebuilt itself under his feet in accordance to the arc of the Sun. By sunset, the city now known as Castorum had sworn fealty to the nascent Empire of the Spine, in name of the Sun and Stag. This is but one of the many miracles contributed to the First Emperor on his crusades of subjugation, the start of which mark year 0 of the imperial calendar. A Dark Event within the Resurgence, detailing the conquests, campaigns and schemes by which the Empire of the Spine rose from a regional power to the superpower that it was. Theantero fucked around with this message at 12:55 on Jan 4, 2020 |
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Jan 4, 2020 12:47
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The Second Crossing -LupusAter It was an ancient custom: walk the length of the Throat while keeping a topaz-encrusted rack of antlers high up in the air. As tradition held, it drew the line again, ensuring that Pha Jhia, once Castorum and before that Fhasa, would keep its peace and that its borders would hold. But it all changed when Ji Lai, seventh son and seventh pilgrim, took the antlers in his hands. With every step he took it seemed that the horns were trapping more and more light, spinning it into an incandescent needle, pointing unmistakably towards the neighboring lands of Sha Ti. The Stag had spoken. Many such prodigies happened along the river's course, and the rumble of war was starting to make itself heard. A Dark event during the Preparation, detailing how the climate of hostility started to take root.
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Jan 4, 2020 15:57
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Dealings Under the Bridge's Shadow -Rentabot An empire only continues to rule by the grace of its citizens and institutions. The rebellion that ousted Empress Rhodais Kyron IV (later referred to as Rhodais the Scorned by historians) and broke down her dynasty began, ironically enough, during the summer festivals celebrating the Empire's formation. Centered around the bridge that connects the two major territories, it was not strange to find various political figures speaking jovially of the events while making under-the-table political dealings. It just so happened that instead of jockeying for position in their own municipalities, they were conspiring against the throne. Select emissaries of the 36 priesthoods of Shura-Kan, the 12 native tribes of Kan and the Shuran Order of Knights drew battle lines and traded information. All taking shelter from the blazing summer sun underneath the shadow of the great bridge that united their disparate homelands. A bridge that would once again be bathed in blood in the civil war being planned underneath it. Going to call this a Dark event that happens during The Preparation period because while the ultimate goal of ending an empire is valiant, the subsequent civil war ravages the population. Rent-a-Bot fucked around with this message at 23:28 on Jan 4, 2020 |
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Jan 4, 2020 23:25
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Legacy of the Span -The Wars of the River Mto The River Mto is more than water, more than the stones within it. There are just as many stories within, and just as much blood flows down it. It is the first River, carved into the psyche of much of the continent of Akanji as it it carved through a dozen valleys and mountains. The River Mto is not it's first name, no. That was "The Veins of Ethreil". It has earned that name a thousand times over. It will earn it a thousand times more. --- Legacy Event: The Fall of the Prime of Glass or We-Always-Fight-Yesterday's-War Here, at these already blood-soaked banks, a mountain will fight its equal. Look! See what an equal is! Jelly-sockets cannot contain the image. All they see is a pillar of glass, rising into the clouds. A million pieces in colors that should not be. They cannot contain the fractal teeth, the eyes that cut flesh (for if they could, their eyes would bleed), or the voice of cold blood and ash. Blades of glass fall from the clouds. In younger minds, they could conjure images of circuit boards. Here they are arcane runes, meaningless and terrible noise. Watch them slam into the mountain's hide! The mountain is impassive, unimpressed. It has bleed more. It has been cut more. And so, it is. The Prime explodes into a storm of glass, tearing all life in it's wake to shreds. There are avalanches. New hills are born and die within seconds. The River Mto runs red! But the mountain endures. It marches forward. Eyes red and blue blazing with hatred. It lets out a mighty roar, and a Blade Temple-City Niata slams into the storm. There is screaming, a thousand panes of glass die in one moment. Another strike. The river is choked with glass. A final strike, and the storm ends. There is only the mountain. And only the mad star who allied with this beast. The Mountain would finish his war. This event is Dark due to the extreme loss of life. The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 01:37 on Jan 5, 2020 |
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Jan 5, 2020 00:59
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Legacy of Nerucic’s Boons In times of conflict, in the oldest ages especially, any number of tales are told of Nerucic granting their blessing, their protection to any number of heroes. Gifts and blessings, some more tangible than others, these are the stuff of legends. At least a few of them are true. Kamilisan Reval carried at least two of these treasures when she claimed Iathagorm’s eye. These things, crafted by divinity, are not so easily buried, not so easily abandoned by fate. --- Legacy Event: Sifting Through The Past To: shbarasho@learn.strand From minoue@gofetch.strand Subj: Re: Re: The Find Agreed it could be the companion piece to the one in Rochefort’s collection. The eyelet is suggestive of a good match, and the augury places the age the same. Not that we’ll ever verify, the old vampire would die before letting us examine one of his pieces, and since he’s yet to die… The surface of the piece seems pitted in parts (see attached), which is funny, as structural analysis suggests we wouldn’t be able to scratch it - maybe something it was exposed to, rather than ravages of age. It has a queer sort of dignity to it - you can’t seem to let it tumble to the side - unless it gets it’s hook in something, it rights itself with rather insistent force. The craftsmanship - not that I’m suggesting yet that it is crafted by man - is graceful but simplistic, a sweeping motif, maybe like waves or wind, but it is subtle - a tool, not an ornament. A hook, we’ve all agreed. For climbing. So not at all something as grandiose as Article #492, and hardly another Perihelion - wouldn’t that have been nice? The augury did give impressions of a weapon - probably a sword, given the era. That could be promising. Our dowsing resonance could be revealing if we reunite it with the companion piece. Expand the area of the search. Show a little progress and they'll give us more time. I've got a good feeling about this one. I’ll let you know when we have some more to offer. Maybe it couldn’t hurt to have the institute reach out to Rochefort’s people? A light event with the End of History, where people have begun to renew efforts to rediscover signs of ages lost to time using the great resources and capabilities mortals now have at their disposal. However, there's more than knowledge buried and some things were better left lost. Ambivalent fucked around with this message at 08:19 on Jan 5, 2020 |
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Jan 5, 2020 07:42
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The Spanfell Channel - ambivalent There'd been an explosion. Several explosions, actually, detonated at key structural points along the length of the bridge by twelve antisocial occultist extremists - if you believed the report. Not enough to really bring the bridge down ordinarily but the bridge's tidal stabilizers had been disengaged at the time for upcoming safety tests - if you believed the report. This, along with unforeseen dilapidation caused by recent adverse weather conditions, led to a cascading failure of a number of failsafes that caused the Wilhuff D. Rochefort Memorial Elevated Commercial District, more commonly known as 'the Span,' to rend itself asunder and collapse into so many pieces into the Sanguine River. The resulting surge had caused extensive flood damage to the Riverside Heights and Hearthcircle neighborhoods. The official death toll came in reported at 71, though individual estimates from surrounding ospetals give numbers much higher. In the wake of the collapse, the High Witnesses apprehended three suspects trying to flee Jhia, followers of the teachings of an obscure charismatic from the last century. Ten years on, and untold amounts of public funding later, the city commissioners' reconstruction effort has only managed to clear a small channel through the rubble and set up a contracting system that allows private citizens and businesses to operate ferry boats on the Mto within the city limits. This is a Dark event in the False End that establishes the beginnings of collapse and the inherent dysfunction of the current period.
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Jan 5, 2020 09:16
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Round 2, Group 1 (Banana Man, Ambi, Tero) Focus: Ospe's Sacred Recipes Throughout the ages, Ospe and her followers have regarded cooking as a sacred art, held in the same esteem as the likes of ichorics, arcanism, and geomancy. Few mortals and gods realize what an outsize influence a warm bowl of soup can wield on the world, or the true stories behind these recipes. Chicken Soup, Or Home-Is-A-State-Of-Mind - An Event/Scene During the Resurgence Question: What was the secret ingredient that elevated Ospe's soup? For 300 years after the last battle of the Titanomachy and saving creation itself, Kamilisan has not been seen or heard from. Now, a young goddess named Ospe travels to a remote valley under the guidance the Truthguardian themself, to serve a meal that will be the seed of one of the pantheon's longest friendships. This is a Light roleplayed scene during the Resurgence. --- https://youtu.be/oWkFU_1Hcck The Valley of Five Silences is still. Very still. The only sound is a faint breeze through the rough, scrawny pines that cling to the thin badlands soil. Somehow the bright noonday sun barely lights it's crevices. Ospe can feel the sting in the air, static electricity so thick it sparks between the pine needles. The whole place threatens to ignite with every step, and somehow never does. An old, moldering copper helmet stares at Ospe from a canyon rock. It is stained with blood. The path is rocky and rough, it is difficult to keep hold on her soup pot. She still does not understand why Nerucic has asked her to come here with them, to this clearly cursed place. They round a corner, and a great cavern looms in front of them. Hot air rushes out, in time with the slow breaths of what Ospe would recognize as a sleeping body. Scaling the trail is not so easy. This is adamantly not her habitat - making deliveries is probably against her creed or something. Is it? She would have to examine that. Should it be? She'd abandoned the old hearthtender's guise halfway through the trek - and would have taken to four legs if not for what she carried. Ospe, wearing the face of an innkeeper's daughter stands at the cave. Her free hand lifts and feels for a cool breeze - some sign of Nerucic, but there is only torrd breathe. No place to knock, so she lets herself in - another reason not to live in a cave, she supposes. If you didn't want a visitors helping themselves in, lock you door. Get a door. The walls are glass, rock melted down and cooled into new shape. It is white, it is red, and blue and green and yellow and purple. Every color at once in the rapidly dimming daylight. The rush of air gets worse, hotter and fiercer. As she goes deeper, they begin to move in time with a rumbling sound. A familiar one. Snoring. In the distance, there is flickering. It almost reminds her of kitchen coals. Little bolts of lightning jump across them - red and blue. She sees flashes of feathers, the hint of long, wicked sharp claws, the leathery skin of a bird or lizard. Closing more and more distance, venturing deeper into the cavern, she finally settles on a polite distance and clears her throat, then waits patiently. Then waits less patiently. And finally, she brazenly reaches out and snaps a sheer layer of cyan glass from the one of the outcroppings and clears her throat one more time. With an uncaring shrug, she swings and smashes the glass against one of the more delicate, large crystalline structures, the crashing shatter ringing off the cavern falls. The pattern of the breathing changes. Feathers glow a little brighter. There's a sigh of disappointment. "I told you I didn't want to talk Neubbbieeeee..." The creature slurs. It has a voice made of low coals and sparks, rumbling thunder and the sharp crack of lightning. "Oh, you're awake after all." She snorts a little, her foot instinctively moving to push the shattered glass into a tidy pile safely out of the way of foot traffic - not that there is any. "Imagine. Sleeping. Lying about. In this day and age?" A tsking of her tongue even as her sandals are busy clearing out a level part of the cavern. "I sa...huh?" A neck cranes. It carries the sound of bonfires. Two bright blue eyes, terribly clear and sharp, appear at the end of a long, heavy beak lined with wicked teeth made of the same glass as the walls and the claws. "Who are you? How did you find this place?" Before she can answer, the creature is already hoisting itself up. Claws disappear into the dark for a moment, only to reappear as the elbows of great wings - covered in feathers made of fire, wreathed with lightning. More pulses in the dark, outlining a truly huge creature. "Why are yo..." The beak leans forward and sniffs. "...is that food?" At the end of the beak there is a leathery, black head. Upon it is a crest of pure fire, flickering in the cave light. She wrinkles her nose, "Well, it was the last cave around the bend, up the miserable rocky path, and here it is." As she's talking, she turns her wrist over and in the flap of her sleeve, a thick, weighty wax candle is in her hand. She sets it on an outcropping and runs her thumb up the wick, igniting it as she goes. Gingerly, she does this a few more times, briskly moving to and fro to set out similar candles in similar ways. "Dark rooms, dark thoughts, I always say." The light stretches out further than any candlelight should, catching just right on the panes of the walls. "Who I am isn't so nearly as important as who you are, though you wouldn't know it, looking at this place." Finally, her right hand unloads it's burden, one pass unrolling a reed place mat, and the other laying out the clay covered pot. "Kamilisan." She says. The bird leans forward and squints at the woman. She can see bolts of lightning swirling in her eyes. "Probably a forgotten name at this point." She says, with a note of bitterness. She finally seems to stop preparing, satisfied that this is as bright and clear as the cave will be getting for now, looking up at the avian dendweller with a satisfied smile, "Kamilisan." She says the name as though seeking confirmation that it is correct. "Don't you think it's time you got up, Kamilisan?" "I don't know if you've looked outside." That's a lie, she knows she hasn't. "But it's past noon." "Not really. I did my job." She says. She sniffs at the pot. "What is this? It smells wonderful." "Interesting thing to say." She neatly lifts her sleeve with one hand while the other hand, uncovering the clay dish to reveal... well, the pottery is quite ingenious, really. She's proud of this. It has a central chamber with a thick, crowded soup - and two partitions, for other dishes. Small, choice bits of meat stir in the stew with, well, noodles sculpted into silhouettes, some familiar, some not so to this goddess. "Kerba and noodles, njangsa, corish, prepared in a style like they do in the Mahlish steppe, you know?" She watches the for the bird's head to move, "No, no, you don't know." "The little crispy things - leeks fried in kawaki seed oil, makes them a little spicy - not for you, of course, I know. Personally, one of my favorites. The fruits are... ah," she pauses, as if she's maybe forgotten for a moment, "livelettes, not for everyone. Maybe for you. Not sure - you haven't tried them, have you? Well, go on, eat." She takes a seat herself finally, crossing her legs, looking up, "So, you're not working at the moment - that must be nice." Kamilisan licks her lips at the food (revealing a tongue made of hot, burning coals), but then looks at the pot. She studies it for a long time. A long claw picks up a tiny utensil, long as a fence is tall. She plucks a piece of meat and dips it in the soup. Her mouth opens, it is all fire and glass - thousands of serrated little teeth sharp enough to tear into the finest armor. She drops the meat in, and chews thoughtfully. Her eyes go back to the pottery. "I was...I was an inventor...before this." She says, sadly. Her eyes go back to the pot. Claws trace the compartments. "How...how did someone make this? I don't remember anything like this. It's very clever." "And it's not, I mostly just sleep. Try to forget the things I had to do." She cringes a little, murmuring something about bringing more candles, then helps herself to a leek crisp, "That bad?" She points down to the pottery, "So this man, he's mudworker, and many days, he goes to the river. Beats out bricks to dry and fire. And I make him his soup for lunch, and he says 'Amadi, I love this soup. And Amadi, I love your crispy leeks, but, Amadi'-" She stops and looks up, then leans in a little, "That is not my name, but that is what he calls me, when I am working there." She winks, "He doesn't know. Doesn't know I'm like you." This amuses her, maybe far too much. She returns to the story, "But I can't take the crisps to the river wh- Well, you know what, it's not a very good story, but he came up with it. Now all the pottery comes from Sha Ti like that." "What's so bad that you holed up in a cave, sleeping through such things like noodles on the Steppes, or dishes from Sha Ti?" She clucks her tongue, "You don't want to see the world you made? That's a shame, you know." "I didn't make the world, I was born it. I used to be a mortal" She says, picking meat out of the stew. "I did what I had to do." Something tired flashes in the eyes. An old memory. She sighs. "You ever heard the one about the girl who blinded a mountain?" She chews on the meat. "That was me." Her eyes follow the meat on it's journey - meat from kerba, great hairy water beasts grazing in marshes, good when you treat it right. She shrugs, "I was born here too. I think, anyway. Never real clear on that..." She trails off distractedly, looking around the cave as if the answer might come to her, but decides it won't. "You're wrong though - for being so old, you're wrong about a lot of things. Did anyone ever tell you this?" She crunches a crisp. "We make the world we live in. Gods - you're doing it now, even when you're not doing it, you know? Mortals. Them too. They're doing it right now. You should see. There's a city - it was two villages, now it is a city. They sleep in the day, like you. But then they work at night, tilling by the light of burning peat." She laughs, shaking her head, delighted by the thought. "I'm going there, after here - I want to know these people. I know it will be a good story - maybe Valakia said something rude. You think?" "Yes, someone I care about very much. They say it often. I'm not very old. Only as old as fire. Don't let my looks deceive you. All this is just what I stole from the Mountain." She winces at the name. "I remember him." Suddenly, there is real fire. It licks across her body. Something dark swims in her eyes. Anger. And then she sees the little goddess again, and tries to let it go. It mostly works. "Thank you." The bird bows. "I don't...I don't know if I should go out. I'm not a very useful thing anymore. Just made of bits and pieces of other gods and a dead mortal. The only thing this body is good for is killing." She looks down at the empty pot. "I don't like killing." She says, quietly. "I like making things, pots and pans and better plows and handaxes and candles. Things that help people." "But I do owe you, I'll take you as far as that town. They won't see me if I don't want them to." "Then you'll go back to sleep?" She snorts, "What's a body? Body's not a killer. Body's not a thing you are." This seems to offend the small goddess, "Make a thing. Make ten things. This world is young now, they're on their wobbly faun legs." "If you're not there for them now, you'll regret it later." She nods wisely, "Trust me. I know these things." She chomps the last leek crisp, "We should go soon though - it is like midnight there, in their city, and I want to see dawn." The Unlife Aquatic fucked around with this message at 09:00 on Jan 6, 2020 |
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Jan 6, 2020 05:19
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Round 2, Group 2 (LupusAter, AJ_Impy, Rent-a-Bot) Focus: The Great Arcanists Scholar, said with the greatest admiration. Intellectual, said with the deepest disdain. Philosopher. Heretic. Visionary. Crackpot. Genius. Menace. Creator. Destroyer. Torch of Kamilisan. Weapon of Adis Kalas. Who were these masters of fusing the magical and the mechanical? What did they theorize, what did they create? And how did they sink to such a low that, for decades, their constant failure was a source of comfort to the world?
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Jan 6, 2020 19:33
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The Calling - MaxieSatan When Valakian's rays no longer pierced the fog, and bones littered the world like grains of sand on a beach, and every winter was harsher and every harvest poorer and every festival more miserable than the last, a Question was asked: What makes someone a hero? A voice like the moon at midnight said: A hero is one who has achieved such Mastery that none can ignore them. A voice like a thunderstorm after a drought said: A hero is one who sees that the world is Less than it ought to be, and does whatever is necessary to make it More. A voice like a trumpet blast and a sword held to the sky said: A hero is one who sees an impossible battle, convinces a thousand troops that they can win - and is correct. A voice like a candlelit dinner said: Heroism is nothing greater or less than Kindness writ large. A voice like a memory of the future said: A hero understands what must happen, and acts accordingly, even when it hurts them greatly. A voice like a record etched in steel said: A hero accepts punishment for good deeds and rejects praise for evil ones. A difficult task indeed. A voice like gravel that once belonged to a tremendous mountain said: A hero is one who learns from their mistakes, and seeks to undo the damage they have caused - and to continue repairing things afterwards. It is said that an eighth voice spoke, as well - but so quiet that it could not be heard. We will see. This is a Light event in the False End, as champions of the Gods rise to put an end to Adis Kalas' reign of terror.
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Jan 6, 2020 19:49
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