My concern would be that they'd instead go forth and start trying to build a new helotry out of rural tribes and villages, places too small and weak to defend themselves. After all, the nobility of Lookshy are still Dragonblooded, and trained soldiers to boot.

They'd likely never manage to raise up the Lookshyan banner again, but they'd still be killing and torturing and enslaving people in the name of their toxic so-called faith. Even if they were driven back by some grand alliance and slaughtered to the last, they'd still reap one last harvest of innocent victims on their way to Oblivion. Leaving any vestige of the Lookshyan upper class alive is like performing an autopsy on a plague victim and leaving the infected blood & organs sitting in the communal trash instead of sending it to an incinerator - jeopardizing the wellbeing of others in the name of expediency.

Well, dragonblooded in such numbers make potent ghosts so...
 
Found the write-up of our new Deathlord, by the way. He's...a good fit for Alexius, if it helps.

It doesn't. Nothing can help us now.

aaaand have a deathlord made for use with @ManusDomin 's lookshy and some lesser dead made for necromancers who want something a lil more beefy ;v

Steel-and-Ember Elegia
Lord of Death
Creature of the Calculated Abhorrence of Life


They draped purple cloth-of-jade about his shoulders, those royal robes of state, and they were so vast they all but swallowed him. They placed a circlet of orchicalcum on his brow, each laurel leaf a masterwork in metal, and it was so big it slipped over his eyes. Into his hands they pressed the starry celestial sphere and the black stave of rulership, Heavens and Creation embodied together, and his arms trembled with the strain of bearing them aloft. He was a descendant of Threshold Daimyo, the last living member of a family that had sat the throne of the greater Shogunate and governed the width and breath of known existence. He was the Born-In-Purple-Eternal of the Empire of Deheleshen, lord of one of the greatest cities to ever grace the Inner Sea; a megalopolis of mystic steel and supercrete stretching to the horizon in every direction. He was Chosen of Daana'd and bore the blood of ancient usurpers and his tongue stumbled over the countless titles they heaped upon his head.

Scapegoat and sacrifice and once-cherished traditions now cynically observed, these were his birthrights.

A weak regime, a withered lineage, the Archons brindled by the slimmest threads and the Conclave out of all control. In better times he might have survived; the puppet to poisonous advisers, a proxy for envious regents. Not a wondrous king to be sure, not one of those colossi that so bestride history, but perhaps a happy one even so: a lifetime of opportunities and potential unfolding before him, rich soil in which his private hopes might have taken root. But here, now, the Contagion comes. The people die and their corpses walk and the sun's face is hidden from the world behind a veil of pyre-smoke; by the thick black plumes that billow from the charnel pits, fed by rendered fat and roasting flesh. But here, now, the Invasion comes. The ramparts of reality are shattered, the devil-tiger's march and the moon's face is hidden behind their shimmering standard; a coruscating banner of insane colors, unfurling across a night sky gone mad. They gave the young king a broken world and bid him make it whole, and when he could not his own Archons tore him from the throne and hurled him to the floor; too-large laurel wreath knocked from its precarious perch, stave and sphere clattering to the mirror-polished tile. Tears dripping down his cheeks as he stared up at the men and women about him; not understanding the drawn sword, the descending edge. Dying without ever knowing why.

He was sinful, they said to themselves. He was forsaken by Heaven, they murmured in agreement. He was an injustice perpetrated upon us, a set of shackles about our wrists and only now can we be delivered to our salvation. Such are the lies that justify the murder of children. And so it was that the first stones set in the foundation of Lookshy, Lookshy the Proud, Lookshy the Free, were splattered with a boy's blood.

But, in the end, one finds that dying is much like falling; forward progress and possible futures all converging into a single direction: down. And the dream of dead Deheleshen dragged him so very far down. Down beneath the raging surface of the bloody rivers. Down until the Calendar's rusted light was just a memory. Down into the darkness and in that darkness he changed. Bound within purple cloth, devouring the spectral city that was fused to him to survive; like a serpent supping on its yolk while it lays curled within its shell. Growing and swelling until he split his skin and then shed it utterly. Until he became a beast of the deep, of blood and ichor, of industrial fire and a city's teeming heat. Hunting and swimming and diving ever further, ever farther, until the day he breached the walls of a Neverborn tomb-body with his jaws and his claws. Until the day he tore the stinking, striated sinews from the carcass of a dreaming Titan and swallowed them whole. Until the day he remembered his way back; back up the Rivers, back up to the surface, back to the Calendar's grinding, mechanical, Sun. Exhaling a plume of rich, crimson mist and breathing in air for the first time in centuries.

The Steel-and-Ember Elegia might be overlooked utterly or mistaken for an island chain at first, an archipelago of the dead wreathed in steam and clammy mist that curls a third of the way across the vast, flooded caldera where Deheleshen's memory once resided. Factory buroughs and brutalist industrial districts flickering with fire scarlet fire, Shogunate-era skyscrapers half-submerged in a massive crater now filled with rust red waters. The black and rainswept coast lined with colonies and fortress-outposts; the Rivers taking the shape of boiling black storms on the edges, iridescent lightning dancing on the horizon. In the distance, miles out to sea and half glimpsed on clearer days, the Labyrinth waits. A hulking shadow hazed by ashen rain. It is only when the nephwracks launch their attack that the truth is revealed: the isles are not separate, the Lord of this place was always here.

The Steel-and-Ember Elegia rises titanic. Sixteen limbs splitting from enormous shoulders, a vast back, clustered about a giant's chest; a leviathan tail below the waist. The body itself serpentine, a snake the size of a city flayed and flensed; baring veins as large as canals, sinews like rail lines. A skyline of supercrete and soulsteel and smokey glass rising from his back like ersatz scales and jagged scutes. His jaws laced by viperous fangs, his visage crowned with a golden laurel wreath melted into grey stone foundations. All about him hang the slimy, River-slick tatters of vast purple robes, dripping and crawling with plasmic life. The shattered fragments of that starry sphere hover all around in shards as large as a yeddim, arcane eyes that blaze with every color of a dying sun. Atop the highest peak of his realm he has driven his black jade stave, increased to match his colossal proportions, and from it flows the fresh water that allows the Domain to endure.

Steel-and-Ember Elegia as Liege: He holds Underworld of the Eastern Inner Threshold against the Laybrinthine beasts that strike out from Meru and for this Sijan has made him a saint and paid him homage. It is not undeserved: he is strong, almost overwhelmingly so, an apex predator nourished by generations of good hunting. An emperor among the other River-born monsters. The city upon his back is a network of Necrotic First Age Manses, a metropole given entirely over to fabrication and manufacturing and with it he crafts many wonders and treasures. His eyes travel far and see much and grant him a breadth of knowledge across the Scavenger Lands; his staff has brought forth an oasis on a once salt-scoured shore and lesser elemental dragons and the mutant spirits of Dragonblood govern territories in his name. Yet, for all this, he is still at his core a child, with a child's dreams and a child's fears. A wounded child with little love for Lookshy or it's loyal ilk, craving protectors of a sort; guardians and guides.

Intelligence from other Deathlords suggests that he has anywhere between one to four Abyssals in his service; at least one Exalted shard bestowed upon him for the service he rendered in breaching the Jade Prison and the others bartered for with assistance and aide in crafting the requisite Monstrances. While he gives his Deathknights a relatively long leash within the Scavenger Lands has little interest in the areas outside of once-Deheleshen. Turning over half-formed designs for re-unification, reconquest and recreation of the ancient state. Tensions with the wary Mask of Winters ebbing and receding depending on Steel-and-Ember Elegia's passion and interest in these plans.
 
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[X] Because it's the only way for this to end. Because the only freedom you or any helot could ever have would be on the backs of a million Lookshyan dead. Fine then. If you had a choice you'd buy it with their blood.
 
[X] Because they told you you were sick, that you were wrong, but you know the truth. It's the world who's sick, not you. It's the world that's twisted and wrong, not you. So break it. Reset it. That's how you heal it.
 
A few things.

1. Thank you all for your kind words, it really means a lot and I appreciate your participation.
2. Please remember that the Prologue isn't quite over. There's at least one more update and an Interlude to go and, all told, this is still essentially the start of the story.
3. While the quest does engage with some pretty heavy topics and the central antagonist is, by design, deeply reprehensible in a systemic, pretty all consuming way, remember that this is still a fictional thing for fun and this is still SV. The Rules in general and Rule Two in particular still apply. Some degree of grandstanding is fine and to be expected honestly, but I'm deeply uncomfortable with the discussion and general tone degenerating into an extended two-minutes-hate-"let's-revisit-the-genocide-idea" thing.

This isn't directed at any one person in particular, just a general QM reminder for courtesy and consideration.

Thanks.
 
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Homebrew: Frozen Beauties
Oh no is that a spoopy ghost for @TenfoldShields?

Frozen Beauties
Lesser Dead
Dead by Cold


On an isolated path under a moonlit snowscape, a hunter meets a beautiful young man. They speak; they fall in love. For five years they meet throughout the winter months. Then the hunter finds someone else. He does not come to the mountain, so the beautiful young man who never ages a day hunts him down. This time he has no warmth of passion to save him from the hungry dead, and the kiss freezes him solid. The beautiful young man returns to his mountain and the snow-hidden mound of bodies of those who could not sate his need for warmth.

Death is cold. Colder still are those restless dead who died all alone. As they die they think of the warmth they lack, and their spirits linger. These ghosts have the cold beauty of a winter landscape. Faintly luminescent flesh is bloodlessly pale; lips are icy blue; eyes and hair as black as the night sky or white as snow. Even those who were ugly in life sculpt the snow into masks that can fool the eye. Such a chilly beauty is their curse, for they long to be warm. Their touch drains heat from mortals and their breath is the howling winds from the North. Love can warm them too and a frozen beauty might live as a spouse with an unknowing mortal for many a year, but should love fade – as it often does when the truth emerges – then their spouse loses such protection.

Frozen beauties are material as long as snow rests on the ground. As a result, they tend to only haunt the North or the high places of Creation. Where they cannot find cold places they swiftly retreat to the Lands of the Dead. Their more abstract hunger for the warmth of passion leads them to seek to rise in power in the societies of the Dead, and many are tempted by the lure of sin-eating.

Necromancers summon frozen beauties when they must venture into cold places, for these ghosts are at home in freezing temperatures. Those who do not fear the cold also task them with serving as concubines, and given true love – or a ready supply of mortals to feed on – a frozen beauty will revel in such a task. Within the colder parts of Creation, such ghosts are not uncommonly encountered within an exorcist's duties, and in the north many shamanistic traditions are well practiced at leading such Dead to the warm waters of Lethe.
 
Oh no is that a spoopy ghost for @TenfoldShields?

Frozen Beauties
Lesser Dead
Dead by Cold


On an isolated path under a moonlit snowscape, a hunter meets a beautiful young man. They speak; they fall in love. For five years they meet throughout the winter months. Then the hunter finds someone else. He does not come to the mountain, so the beautiful young man who never ages a day hunts him down. This time he has no warmth of passion to save him from the hungry dead, and the kiss freezes him solid. The beautiful young man returns to his mountain and the snow-hidden mound of bodies of those who could not sate his need for warmth.

Death is cold. Colder still are those restless dead who died all alone. As they die they think of the warmth they lack, and their spirits linger. These ghosts have the cold beauty of a winter landscape. Faintly luminescent flesh is bloodlessly pale; lips are icy blue; eyes and hair as black as the night sky or white as snow. Even those who were ugly in life sculpt the snow into masks that can fool the eye. Such a chilly beauty is their curse, for they long to be warm. Their touch drains heat from mortals and their breath is the howling winds from the North. Love can warm them too and a frozen beauty might live as a spouse with an unknowing mortal for many a year, but should love fade – as it often does when the truth emerges – then their spouse loses such protection.

Frozen beauties are material as long as snow rests on the ground. As a result, they tend to only haunt the North or the high places of Creation. Where they cannot find cold places they swiftly retreat to the Lands of the Dead. Their more abstract hunger for the warmth of passion leads them to seek to rise in power in the societies of the Dead, and many are tempted by the lure of sin-eating.

Necromancers summon frozen beauties when they must venture into cold places, for these ghosts are at home in freezing temperatures. Those who do not fear the cold also task them with serving as concubines, and given true love – or a ready supply of mortals to feed on – a frozen beauty will revel in such a task. Within the colder parts of Creation, such ghosts are not uncommonly encountered within an exorcist's duties, and in the north many shamanistic traditions are well practiced at leading such Dead to the warm waters of Lethe.
The husbando wars, begun, they have.
 
[X] Because it's the only way for this to end. Because the only freedom you or any helot could ever have would be on the backs of a million Lookshyan dead. Fine then. If you had a choice you'd buy it with their blood.

This seems to be a bit more concerned about the lot of his fellow slaves and rescuing them, so I like it better.
 
Homebrew: Existential Ectoplasmic Entities
Interrupted
Lesser Dead of the Helotry, by Caprice

It would be... not nice, or fair, but something closer to nice and fair, if doing one's duty was enough to spare a helot the whip or the sword. It might grant their suffering some structure, something resembling a reason, however cruel.

Lookshy is not in the habit of encouraging its helotry to have reason, and so, on occasion, it reminds them of exactly what their position is through violence. Not against the weakest, like a punishment for failure. Not against the strong, so as to snuff out rebellion. But at random, simply to show, yes, it can. Yes, it will.

An Encrypted arrow striking down a man working the fields. An overseers sword, casually swung at a trench digger. The only sense behind these deaths is their senselessness, and it is this senselessness that can induce a ghost to stay, unwilling or unable to believe it would be killed for nothing at all.

So they continue to toil, mindlessly. In shock. They rise at night to continue their task, as though through effort their deaths might be recognized as mistaken and somehow corrected. However, they aren't particularly... precise, as to where and what they work on. Unbound Interrupted might dig trenches through lonely woods, or harvest a noble's rose garden. Or sometimes (by chance?) they will continue their work upon a living body, and the morning will come to find a corpse with its ribs split apart by a spade, skull shattered by a pick, or its head 'harvested' by a sickle.

The Iron Nails
Ancestor of the Helotry

To stand out, for a helot, is to die, and so, if a helot wishes to live, they fervently pray to avoid notice, or prove exceptional in any way. Unfortunately, someone listens. The Iron Nails died in his sleep, old in a way helots almost never live to be, and frightened down to his bones. It was this fear that kept him from Lethe, and this fear that drives him on his task.

He appears, much as he did in life, to those helots who are blessed in some way. Notable. Maybe they are beautiful, or strong, or eloquent. Maybe they have long hair, or a deep voice. Anything that a helot might take pride in, and that an overseer might take notice of - this is what draws the Iron Nails, to save these helots from their own gifts. He scars the beautiful, cripples the strong... anything, so that they might avoid being picked out by the overseers to be made an example of.

In this, he does the overseers' job for them. He is given power beyond the average Dead by the whispered prayers of helot parents upon seeing their child, the muttered mantra of many a helot - please, no, look away, not here, not today.

Pyreclasm
Lesser Dead of the Helotry, by Defiance

While Lookshy has refined techniques of terror and despair to better break the spirits of helots, no system is flawless. This is the truth of the Underworld - all things fail, given time. So it is, sometimes, that when a helot is chosen to be made an example of, they deny their masters sport in the only way they can. They lean into the knife, bite their tongue, and leave a mute husk instead of a screaming victim.

Of course, that hardly stops their body from being eviscerated and mounted, but the small defiance remains deep in the soul that sparked it, only worsened by the ritual disrespect given to their corpse. The rage, the hate, the pain - that can anchor a rather unique ghost. A Pyreclasm is a creature of self-destructive passions.

Here is a situation presented to Lookshyan masters: a helot drops their shovel and walks away from the work-line. The overseer cracks their whip once, and the helot stumbles, but continues to walk. Such defiance is not to be borne, of course, and the overseer rides near to strike the helot down. However, as steel bites into skin, the overseer sees the face of their target - and they are grinning, eyes lit by blue-white fire.

The helot bursts into a flame that dives on to the overseer like a living thing. It is a painful way to die.

The Sufferer
Sin-Eater, Ancestor of the Helotry

The helotry produces fewer ghosts than one might expect, given their circumstances and the cruelty of their deaths. Lookshy might, on occasion, use this as a defense of their system, when in fact it is the harshest condemnation. Helots do not leave ghosts because their lives have so very little to cling to, and Lookshy does all it can to ensure they have nothing at all to hold them back from Lethe. The lesser dead of the helotry slipped through this process - Pyreclasms found death before their defiance could be crushed in life, Fox-Breaths reach maturation when too many helots are gathered to account for, Interrupted held on to the lie of duty Lookshy would perpetuate.

The details of the Sufferer's life are both utterly mysterious and completely transparent. All that is known is that they were, once, a helot. And, in a way, that's all that needs to be known. Like the Iron Nails, the Sufferer clung to life, but where the Iron Nails reached old age, the Sufferer never made it close.

The Sufferer clings to those who resemble the way it was in life - numb, dead men and women walking, and takes their pains for its own. The possessed helot becomes disassociated from their own body. Free, in a way. Sometimes they rebel, no longer cowed by whips. Other times, they simply enjoy a time without pain.

This freedom from pain is what dooms them. Wounds accumulate on the possessed, starvation and dehydration cause their organs to fail, and the helot dies. Maybe on an overseer's sword, maybe in a ditch - it doesn't really matter. The Sufferer can be compelled to leave by rubbing salt in the wounds of the possessed, but few helots have salt enough to try, and even fewer would attempt it even if they did. Far more pray, knowingly or not, for the Sufferer to take them next.

The Sufferer will consume any ghostly helot it comes across, to spare them the afterlife. If any Lookshyan exorcist knows of it, they fear what it would be if it dove into the Labyrinth, as it is already one of the more powerful Greater Dead.
 
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[X] Because it's not fair, because they killed you before you ever got a chance to live. Because they stole the future from you and took away your past and so if you could you would take everything from them.

revenge
 
[X] Because it's not fair, because they killed you before you ever got a chance to live. Because they stole the future from you and took away your past and so if you could you would take everything from them.

This seems more interesting. Less, I dunno, moral motivation, I suppose? More fun tho.

And boy is it fun to have an Exalted quest with something that's not an Alchemical, (ES' headcanon version of)an Infernal, or a damn Worm crossover. I swear to god that stinky-ass locker gets more Exaltations than most of Creation's large city-states.
 
[X] Because it's the only way for this to end. Because the only freedom you or any helot could ever have would be on the backs of a million Lookshyan dead. Fine then. If you had a choice you'd buy it with their blood.

On a lighter note, I wonder what Alexius edgy Abyssal name will be?
 
[X] Because they told you you were sick, that you were wrong, but you know the truth. It's the world who's sick, not you. It's the world that's twisted and wrong, not you. So break it. Reset it. That's how you heal it.
 
They can rebuild him. They have the thaumaturgy.



also god you monsters

Oh no is that a spoopy ghost for @TenfoldShields?

Frozen Beauties
Lesser Dead
Dead by Cold

but how's their singing voice?

Take 50xp you obscene thing, brings you up to a total of 200xp iirc. Character sheet'll go up with the next update so you might actually get to spend it Soon.

Interrupted
Lesser Dead of the Helotry, by Caprice
The Iron Nails
Ancestor of the Helotry
Pyreclasm
Lesser Dead of the Helotry, by Defiance
The Sufferer
Sin-Eater, Ancestor of the Helotry

Yooo, I dig 'em. The Interrupted are great as just this ambient monster that isn't necessarily hostile although it's definitely dangerous, Iron Nails is a fantastic boogeyman type figure, Pyreclasm is absolutely a thing I could see Lookshyan exorcists and potential necromancers grappling with, and the Sufferer is understated but still pretty evocative.

Take 200xp for the collection.
 
[X] Because they told you you were sick, that you were wrong, but you know the truth. It's the world who's sick, not you. It's the world that's twisted and wrong, not you. So break it. Reset it. That's how you heal it.

Because this seems like the option where we slaughter them all, and as they look up at us asking why we coldly say "to save you".
 
[X] Because they told you you were sick, that you were wrong, but you know the truth. It's the world who's sick, not you. It's the world that's twisted and wrong, not you. So break it. Reset it. That's how you heal it.

I kinda wonder if our reasoning effects what Caste we'll be?
 
[X] Because you don't know what love is but you know hate, you know anger and shame and loneliness and hunger. Because Lookshy made you something less than human. So let them see the fruit of their labor.
 
[X] Because they told you you were sick, that you were wrong, but you know the truth. It's the world who's sick, not you. It's the world that's twisted and wrong, not you. So break it. Reset it. That's how you heal it.
 
[X] Because it's not fair, because they killed you before you ever got a chance to live. Because they stole the future from you and took away your past and so if you could you would take everything from them.
Adhoc vote count started by Siual on Nov 30, 2018 at 11:30 AM, finished with 105 posts and 67 votes.
 
[X] Because it's not fair, because they killed you before you ever got a chance to live. Because they stole the future from you and took away your past and so if you could you would take everything from them.
 
[X] Because it's not fair, because they killed you before you ever got a chance to live. Because they stole the future from you and took away your past and so if you could you would take everything from them.

E: Opps, too late. Oh well, the story is pretty great so far. Interested in seeing an abyssal for once though.
 
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Discord said:
Omicron Today at 4:16 AM
https://66.media.tumblr.com/8710da1...14de/tumblr_inline_p7r6rfTKiG1taoahu_1280.png

Somehow relevant to @Tenfoldshields's Out of the Eater :V
Tenfoldshields Today at 4:17 AM
looks at the half finished update
ZerbanDaGreat Today at 4:17 AM
wh-
Tenfoldshields Today at 4:17 AM
wordlessly deletes it
ZerbanDaGreat Today at 4:17 AM
yeah that's probably besty
Omicron Today at 4:18 AM
I'M SORRY
I THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY
Tenfoldshields Today at 4:19 AM
out of the eater canceled o_o
So if the update is delayed, now you know who to blame :V
 
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