Project Prometheus (Warhammer Fantasy OC Civ Quest)

Project Prometheus

This is a world of heroes.

To the far west, the ancient Servitors of the Old Ones maintain their valiant struggle against the End. Upon the Eternal Island the Sons of Asuryan fight, and die, and hope, to see the world protected from the eternal foe. Within the boughs of Athel Loren, the noble defenders of nature ensure its menaces cannot threaten the woods which they love any more. Stubborn to the end, brave Dawi resolutely battle against the darkness, to avenge themselves for every slight against them. Humanity grows, in many different cultures, adaptive and so small yet, led by their gods and their dragons, whether east, west, or south.

This is a world of villains.

Ratmen, Skaven, chew at the very foundations of reality in their Under-Empire, battling against the surface dwellers, weak individually but there are always more of them than the good that they slaughter. The Beastmen bray their challenges to civilization on every part of the globe, throwing themselves in maddened ecstasy against man and elf and dwarf alike in the name of gods who know they are puppets. Seeking his throne Malekith the Neverking shatters Ulthuan, murders his way accross Naggaroth, and with his followers, the Druchii, servants of Khaine, still seeks mastery of fair Ulthuan. Greenskins, whether brutally cunning Goblins or cunningly brutal Orcs, swarms from the mountains screaming ecstasy in battle. And everywhere the Wardstones fail, daemons threaten the very fabric of reality at the poles, seeking to pour out in hordes and burn the world. And humanity, always prone to breaking, breaks even more in service of Dark Gods, and darker things.

It is a time of war.

It is a time of change.

It is a time that needs heroes, willing to fight the darkness.

It is a time that needs you. A people unknown in the proper course of things, but unless someone is willing to step up and make things right, the world hurtles towards destruction anyway: you can hardly make things worse, can you?

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The Undine

There was peace upon your islands in the underworld once. In the soft light of the red rock, so bright and too hot to be touched, you gathered lichens, and fished with string of sinews and moss and hooks of bone, and exulted in wit and shadow, and made simple homes in the dark and mists from what materials could be found at hand. A hard life in the darkness, but you were promised calm by the Visitors, that in the Black Sea you would know peace as you had not before. None would threaten you, for none would find you in those shadows so thick and so far away from the surface of the world where the Visitor's kinfolk held court. And so in contentment you wiled away your days, peaceful and serene. The ages of the world passed and if sometimes the shadows and the darkness seemed to shake such was what came to pass upon the surface, well that was no concern of yours but of those who held the surface.

And then they came upon their bleak prows, the Dark Elves, searching for…something, you neither know nor in truth care for what. There are no words for the atrocities the tall folk, the black armored, the vicious, the Druchii brought upon your people when they found you. Taken in slaving raids to work in the Up-Side, under their vicious conditions and the glare of the bright sun, over thousands of years you have fled, and fled, and fled, as far and as fast as you can, from island to island, knowing you have no chance to fight them for they are great and you are weak and that is the way of the world which can never change. But in the end, you have been pushed back to a small handful of islands, for their greed is insatiable, their lust for domination endless, their hatred without cessation. Your people dwindle, in spite of your fecundity, so great is the Dark Elves' desire for flesh to slave for them, to mine and farm and fight and die in their place.

It seemed the end of your kind was upon you, and that the world was lost, and that you should all perish. For no single kin band was able to stand against them, and what few victories you had—and that is few on the scale of millennia— were wiped away in an instant once one of their sorceresses did their grim work.

But you have heard a still, small voice in the shadows, as defeat and death loomed overhead, promising victory and knowledge in equal measure if you would but seek it out in the deepest ponds. The risk is great, but the risk from the Druchii is greater still; and you are able. So you will march to that dark place, and you will speak to those familiar voices, and you will offer yourself if that should be necessary to save your people from the bleak ones, the killers, the slavers and their blades.

Starting Position: The Underworld Sea, under Naggaroth—a vast body of water dotted with islands and island chains of various sizes if none quite continental, where the sun never shines and things stir in the water. Small glimmering gems provide light, provide life, as do vast magma vents pouring out the world's blood. Seams of brightrock—metal, in the tongue of Druchii— saturate vast stalagmites and stalactites and are apparently of use.

Your People: You the Undine are a short people, very short, of about the same height as the Dwarfs and Goblins, with a considerable, if restrained energy that grows refined but never fades even in old age, with pointy ears and skin in shades of yellow to blue to gray to green in order of rarity, and hair in shades of brown, black, green, gray, red or blond, with eyes of violet, green, yellow, red, or brown. You are stronger than you might think, but not as strong as many of the other creatures in the world. But you are fast, and you have quick reflexes, and there are ever many of you, even in this benighted age.

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The Alumeth

You were born from evil. In the bleakest depths of the far north you were raised, a Beastfiend, born of the mixing of Daemon and Gor, a child of the Beastlord of the Whitefang tribe, the strongest, who battled for ages long and numerous with the Elves, the weaklings, upon the shores of your continent. You were considered the least among the tribe, the least among Fiends, the least among Chaos; but you were considered among it, a servant to the darkness.

Your father died, and your siblings betrayed you, and you were left, left to die in the cold bleeding from your wounds, slowly and painfully passing into the next world, to be feasted on by the Snowbirds and the Spawn. Daemons plotted to devour your soul, and whispered lies to you. The beasts stalked you, hoping to kill you and eat your flesh. Your wound turned pale green and your blood began to flow as the animals waited for your death.

You called to Khorne, and the Father of Rage did not answer. For what care does He offer to a fallen soldier but to place their skull upon His throne?

You called to Slaanesh, and the Prince of Obsession did not answer. For the pain of your death was a lovely sensation to Him.

You called to Tzeentch, and the Servant of Lies did not answer. For the possibilities of your death spiraling outward occluded the coming certainty of your living in His eyes.

You called to Nurgle, and the Rider of Despair did not answer. For the despair you felt was a buffet to Him.

So you called to anyone, anything, at all, just to be known.

Someone answered.

You called for healing, and Iakasheth came to you upon a ray of light, clad in armor bright and pristine as the snow and forged from true light, followed by Their Kinsmen and They burned out every poison from your flesh, and sealed the wound shut. They were brilliant, more brilliant than can be considered, and burned your eyes, so you begged them to allow you to see without the Shadow and They cast it aside and restored your sight and allowed you to see Them. You understood that you were dirty, filthy even, so They washed you in water warmed by Their fire. Your horns were crooked, but now are straightened; you spoke darkness but now know only bright tidings; you were ignorant but now are knowing.

You were weak, but now you are strong.

Bearing the new word of your gods and of freedom and of the light you engaged in battle with the Tribe's Shaman and your wayward siblings, defeating them, bringing them and the tribe under your control. After a year you finally successfully feel completely in control as the changes among the tribe finish themselves, as all are made to know the truth of the gods, both the old and new. But this cold place…you will never be safe here, for it bleeds hell, and suffering follows it to all places.

But that is fine; for Iakasheth has a plan. You will flee to the north, as far and as fast as you can, on ships stolen from human and snakemen and elf alike that seek to make pilgrimage to this, the land of the Daemons and from there, the world will be your oyster.

Starting Position: You will flee from the Southern Wastes, the Cold Hell, and try to find somewhere you belong to the north, where there is freedom and saity and hope, not just for your people but for all people that one day the world might be saved.

Your People: Descended of the Beastfiends, though never again to kneel before their Dark Gods, you are as physically robust as they come, if not quite so fast as other, thinner creatures. Though you still are a hybrid of man and beast in the manner of the Ungors and of the Gors and of the Bestigors, you are more wholesome in shape and in form, less ravaged by disease and plague. Your fur and hair are the same shades as that of the Beastmen proper, and your greatest most obvious difference from them are horns that are always brighter shades, only come in twos, and are invariably sensible, whether curving or straight following mathematical principles to be pleasing. Whether something that is as akin to the Minotaurs and Harpies, among other monsters, as you are to the Gor will arise from you is as yet unknown.

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The Kasarm

A very long time ago, a god was wounded in battle; for it was a time of wolves and a time of daemons, a time of feeding and a time of predators, a time of battle and a time of soldiers, and a time for reaping. He, Athlankar, bled into the ocean, and a great island formed, and He named it, arising to the east of the great continent, the land of Dragons. And He made people, and breathed the breath of life into their lungs, but not wakefulness, not yet for that was not the time. But daemons were everywhere, and the world needed Him, so He traveled upon the wind on His great steed, a fine horse indeed, masterful and able it was, the father of all horses even; and in His left hand He held His unstrung bow, and in His right hand, His reigns, and upon His head, the Crown of the king of the gods. And Athlankar left them, His people, to sleep, for wakefulness would not come upon them for many years yet. They slept for an age of the world, resting, preparing, their island home preserved of every evil that might come upon them by the blowing of the winds—and of the Winds of Magic, shaped by the gods until such a time as its inhabitants were needed; and then they were needed by all the world.

They awoke. And they knew.

They were created. For a purpose, for a reason, for a cause. They knew this in their bones, as they knew to breath and to sleep and to eat.

They were created by the gods, but not the Laughing Idiots Shrieking Into the Void that leered at them from the north and from the south, from the east and from the west, desiring to eat their souls and assert their dominance as The Gods, as greater than others, as masters of this domain of souls and of the mortal realm alike. They, the Kasarm, were born of better gods, older gods. But They were silent as Their children woke, and so as the Kasarm came to life they were frightened by the world, frightened and confused for in their dreams they had seen the gods and their works as though they had lived it.

But fear gave way to certainty and determination. Certainty that for the world to be saved, the gods must awaken and take Their place.

And so on the slopes of the holy Mount Kaish the Kasarm prepared themselves, in the Wind-soaked plain and in the far eastern place, where trees were manifold and where enemies were none, dedicating themselves to growing prepared to march to war neither too early nor too late, but exactly on time. They forge now blade and shield, spear and arrow, bridle and bow, armor and ax. Carried by the winds, they shall shoot straight and true and they shall awake the gods to their proper place, standing triumphant against the enemy.

Starting Position: A large island to the east of Cathay and the west of Nippon, dominated by Mount Kaish, a tall, piercing mountain risen from the plains, which is the Kasarm's only notable source of metal as yet.

Your People: Your people, the Kasarm are neither as strong as Dwarfs, nor as adroit as the Elves, but neither are they as slow as the Dwarfs nor as gentle as the elves. And they have surpassingly good vision and hearing. They stand about as tall as the average human, perhaps a bit taller towards the top and a bit shorter towards the bottom. Their skin may be amethyst purple, turquoise blue, or obsidian black; their hair golden, ruby red, silver gray or amber brown. Their eyes may be pure white, a tiger orange, rose pink or emerald green and they have a sclera of the opposite color; further, they have only the colored pupil and the sclera.

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The Colossi

You were born of the mountains, but they are no good now; now, evil things swarm the slopes and valleys, hunting and looting, pillaging and burning, destroying and raiding, bringing suffering and pain and loss with them, and bringing death to glade and dale and stream and spring, making them no good for anyone anymore no matter what Band they followed. The Greenskins aye, and the beastmen too, and the wandering corpses risen up by the bleak witches to attack you and kill you so to raise you up as slaves and servants and warriors and to strengthen their armies. So handfuls of you traveled down the mountains, following the streams and rivers until you found a mighty sea and came to its mouth, for no matter how mighty of thew you are and how great the strength of your brow, they came in such numbers that you had no chance. There was a strained peace as so many Bands were near other Bands, but it did hold for you wanted to live more than you wanted to fight each other to settle old scores.

No matter what the others who did not flee said, in their caves and in their pits and in their huts, the mountains were no longer for you; indeed their slopes were now riddled with all manner of evil things, things of which people should not speak, lest they draw the attention of bleaker foes to you, and they shall be lucky if death is all that finds them if they do not run. Copper and stone and strength of arm will not be enough to hold on to that which your people have claimed.

In spite of that flight, you are mighty. Even the lowliest of the Colossi stands taller than the Greenskins but for their Trolls, mightier than all but the bulls among beasts, and more enduring than all but the lowliest of the dead who know no fear nor exhaustion. But they outnumber you, and they can fight, and fight, and fight, all of them, never seeming to tire no matter how many you slay with bronze and stone and arrow. So at that place where the rivers meet the seas you have created a small place of your own, marked off for the moment by a ditch and wood driven into the ground; but you will create more. For there are those among the Band who speak of visions and things not seen and things not heard by you.

You hunt, you forage, you forge, you raise kith and kin into Band and you create, waiting for the day when they will all see that you were right, that there is more than the mountains; that you were right to flee. For they must flee; they cannot be so stubborn. They will know, in time. You will prove it. One day the other Bands will realize that you were right, that the doom you preached has come to pass, that darkness waits to devour the lot of you unless you flee; and so they will come to you, and to your place on the seas.

Starting Position: The lands south of the Empire, in what will day become the Border Princes (not that the Colossi know that, obviously). At the moment, however, it is nothing more than the post-apocalyptic remains of Lichtenburg, the vanity project of Emperor Sigismund, and uninhabited but for bands of the undead, the truest winner of that war.

Your People: You are large, standing both taller and broader than humans, than orcs, than elves and dwarfs—indeed taller than anything but the minotaurs and the trolls and the rats, enough that a single blow is death. You move with a precision and a care for your surroundings, not destroying them and trampling them as the treacherous beastmen do. Thinner and more gracile than the trolls as well, not that that says much, since you've seen the trolls eat rocks, branches, mud and worse when they get hungry enough. Your flesh may be gray, white, tan, or black. Your hair comes in white, black, gray, and red. There are hard, blunt and shimmering crystals at your joints, not necessarily every one but at least from your skull, knuckles, and sternum, which may be of any color though of a lighter shade. Your eyes may be darker shades of any color. You have pointed ears, very pointed.

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The Arachnoids

You remember…much of Then, if not before they came. You remember villages in the forests, a burning fire and the smell of meat pulled from webs to be cooked. You remember the horn-headed ones, the false ones, the neverborn, binding you in chains. Beating you, cutting into your skin, branding you, leashing you, tattooing you with their mark. You can hardly remember. You remember them sending you to die in droves, in numbers fit to choke out the sun, against their enemies to soften them before the real fighting began, young and old and alike. Spat out to perish in battle against the metal clad, who burned you and cut you apart and tore into your flesh; the bewitching, who shot and terrified and killed in equal measure; the grail touched, who sang their song so loud it shook the world. But most of all you remember the scaled, the Lizardmen. You remember the world shifting as one of their number, dead-but-not, simply glared at you and you felt the marks burnt and carved and tattooed into you light up like a coal had been shoved into your skin and then the wound sewn shut while it burned. You remember the jungle.

You remember Deliverance.

You remember exceedingly little after that, except burning and fire and light. Except then you woke up, somehow, some way still alive, not slaughtered as you would have slaughtered such prey. The world shifted, and the burning ended, and your wounds healed, and you could be free for all that was done to you, every cut and brand and tattoo and rune made of your flesh made into ash. Except that how can there be freedom if what was once done to you can be done to you again, now, except even more permanently? Only a small number of your people have survived the desecration, the murder, the slaughter brought onto you by the Web-Pluckers. It must not happen again, no matter what comes for you. So you will learn, watching the Lizardmen and the humans alike in their number, to see what functions and to turn aside what does not, to prepare for the vengeance that will come, to make yourself ready for the battles to come, this time fought not as slaves to darkness but as a free people, ready to step forward and take the world into your hands.

This place, surrounded by humans but not yet taken by them; where the Lizards lurk in strength, hiding in the jungles, watching you for even the slightest sign of corruption; where the dead get up and walk and threaten the world? It shall be a fine place to rebuild everything, everything, that was taken from you, and then to seek revenge on those who brought the evil against you in the first place. No matter what the cost may be, you will burn the shape of your hatred onto them as lightning carves its mark onto the earth.

Starting Location: The central-to-south-eastern portion of the Southlands, not on but near the coast

Your people: From the waist down you resemble nothing so much as a great spider, with eight mighty legs tipped with hard spikes able to pierce metal with a good jab—there was a reason Chaos sought to make you its puppets. This spider portion is covered in thick fur and hair and generally, though not always, of darker shades. From the waist up you resemble a number of the bipedal species which walk the world, though are not precisely a copy of any singular one. Your body is a (generally) dull shade of green, red, or yellow. Horns, large ones, erupt from your head, almost wavy in motion, hard and sharp. Your arms from the elbow down are covered in a thick, soft, but dense layer of fur culminating in large paws with four fingers, each topped by a hard and sharp claw. Whorling, fractal black patterns flow over your body from the head to the tips of your legs and into your carapace.

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The Calratians

You simply…are. You are not like the land-walkers below, nor the elves from the sea, nor the cyclops nor the dragons of which the oldest elders might speak. You have not gathered together in great clumps nor founded the villages and settlements they have. You have rode the winds and the skies, as ever, following the Zephyr as it blasts this way and that across the world, from the north and from the south alike. You follow the paths of the monoliths that weave across the surface of the world, hunting and foraging and fishing as you do. In this way you are not like the ground bound, who make permanent cities for themselves.

But most of all, you are not like the Corruption, which forever creeps downward from the north, towards you and all other people. You are not like the glittering Neverborn, who seek to kill you, and make your feathers into decorations, and pull out your eyes for their auguries. Not like the Broken, who willingly serve that which would see the world drowned in the sludge of hell, and kill you for trophies and for the sake of the hunt. Not like the Beasts, who bear the chains of Corruption on their souls and on their bodies and in their minds, most of all their minds, who kill you for the barked commands of their evil masters. But they all together have killed you, and killed you, and killed you, again and again and again, and every family has lost at least a member; some have lost many, many more. So if you do not want to die—and you do not—it seems that you will have to make a stand for yourselves, and leave behind the nomadic way which you have known or all be killed in ones and twos in a long death, a long death that will take centuries but will invariably see all of your people dead over the years unless you do something about it.

But you have the answer. There are, far to the southwest of the continent, mountains, low lying but easily defended that descend only into fecund plains and desert, both easily defended; and neighbored from every direction by the Lizardmen, and so only threatened by incursions from without. Sometimes you have known peace with the Lizardmen; sometimes they have sought to fight you, or even to stamp you out altogether, if only singular bands rather than your entire people. But this is much better than the Northerners, and the Beastmen, and the Daemons, who have tried to kill you every time they have seen you. And in any case you have no better plan than thus, to flee to the mountains and hope. For as is you cannot survive traveling anymore, for the things of the enemy will not allow it for you any longer. And that is not simply bleak belief any more; for none now have been born across the great ocean, far to the east.

Starting Location: The very bottom portion of the Spine of Sotek mountain range, your first settlement lying directly south of the Lost Valley.

Your People: A combination of the forms of man and bird, tall and thin, with very long wings, clawed fingers and toes, but a certain brittleness of frame: you can hit hard, certainly, but a good crushing blow seems to strike you harder than an equivalent. Your feathers are bright and vibrant and beautiful, shimmering across the many colors of metal: shimmering green as copper, mirror like silver, and sunshine gold, among many others.

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The Gurgran

You were spirits once. Of the cunning, of the tricksters, of that which hunts to live. For ages and for no time at all you lived in peace among what the mortals of this new world, your new home, call the Aethyr but which in your mind was the Great Wild, being beneficent to those who did you aid and offered the proper rites, and cunning and clever indeed to those who did you insult and brought harm upon you and yours. The personification of the cunning, the clever, the trickster and the scavenger that was too wise for the ways of the world. Dipping into, and out of, the material whether to help some foolish-but-noble creature on a quest or to bring that vengeance which you could on that which knew no honor.

Then they came, bearing their barking madness. That Which Birthed Ambition. That Which Birthed Despair. That Which Birthed Obsession. And worst of all, That Which Birthed Hate. The Bull Headed who roared an endless roar of hate. He raged and lied and sullied the Aethyr that was yours, for the thought of the cunning and the clever that could deny Him what was His—mastery of the Aethyr, yes, but more than that, mastery of the clever and of the cunning and of beasts—in His own mind as riddled with madness as it is, could not be allowed. His Daemons especially sought to fight you, sought to slay you, sought to kill you, an endless tide of Bloodletters, Heralds, and Bloodthirsters all seeking mastery over what, by right, was His—the Beasts.

To stay would have meant death. Worse than death—slavery, subjugation, kneeling to that which could brook no cunning, that forged without art, that offers nothing to the world from which it takes so much. You have tricked the dragons, and the humans, and the elves, and the dwarfs, in your long existences—but it has been at least sometimes the tricks played between friends and not just the basest treachery of the Raven, that knows no loyalty to none except the loyalty that can forced at the edge of a blade.

So, left without a choice, you did the unthinkable: You Incarnated yourself, all of you who wished to live anyway, tearing a hole in reality through which you could leave behind the Aethyr for a realm safer, saner, less demented: for all that the material reality bears the mark, the stain, of Chaos, of the Four, bedrock deep at least the Idiot Gods must play the part of puppeteers instead of generals and lords in this realm; at least, for the moment. Compared to the hordes of Daemons who even now no doubt prowl the Great Wild looking for you to feed on, the paltry cults so easily tricked into revealing themselves, the hordes of human slaves that had no cunning, and the snakewomen of Khuresh, the other lesser Beastmen, the servants of Chaos on this plane, were as nothing to that great bleak host of suffering and death and power.

Starting Location: The northern portion of the Hinterlands of Khuresh, near the border with the Celestial Empire

Your People: You are a very physically diverse group, varying greatly in how much you are mortal and how much you are fox and how much you are mortal. The traits you all share in common are two: the long set of fox ears that erupts from your head, and the tails that erupt from the back of your waist. You are somewhat delicate in that much can harm you, but even after physical incarnation you are spirit enough that great harm might befall you and yet you may continue on. As cunning and as skilled as the fox, you are quick and graceful and fight well.

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The Bajdrag

Born upon the Mountains, you were born to guard the dragons, created by the Power to guard and protect them. For an age you lived under their guidance, gathering the food and water such mighty creatures need and in return were offered their protection from the many evils that roam this world. The Ceaseless Feast was warded away by the offering of tribute and the threat of retribution. But then the Bearded Ones came, the killers, the murderers, the slayers, and your people were killed in dozens, in hundred, in thousands, in more than it was thought possible for there to as the great Drakes you were sworn to protect were slaughtered, perhaps even all of them, by the Ax-Holders, the Grudge Bearers, the defilers of hoards and the defilers of flesh. You were left with nothing and so for an age you were simply yet another threat within the mountains, if a small one. Pillaging and fighting for the right to survive.

But the Ogres ever hunger and you are just the right size to be an appetizer; and who knows when the Murderers might return in their snowy armor and hateful prowess to finish the work they started centuries ago? So rather than wait to die, you have fled down the slopes of the mountain to a great forest, where rivers criss-cross and you cannot be killed. There is fresh prey, and plentiful water, and wood to work and burn alike for warm; but there is more you must do, more you must have. Else you will die.
That which is worst in life whispers to the north, the chained dragons writhing in pain and in betrayal that you have failed them. Their Gors, who earned the wrath of the Dragons countless times, will come for you seeking vengeance. Too the wolf riders will desire their pound of flesh for what was done to them; the Hobgoblins show little enough fear. And then there are, all around you, humans. The Hung to the direct east, and to the north. And far enough east you shall reach Cathay…and the land of the Dragons. Not that which you once followed, not direct kin to the great winged beasts whose blood even now yet flows in your veins, but yet Dragons, as mighty and majestic as that which you served.

And then there are the Bearded Ones—where did they go? Why did they kill the Dragons? What did they earn of it, from it? Do they think they can murder, and slaughter, and kill as they desire for mercurial reasons and suffer no censure? Do they think their mendacity, their killing, will have no ill-effect? That others will forget what they have done to them, for—for what? They never even spoke, simply slaughtered you, cutting through the club and stone armored bands like…like a knife through grass. You will have an explanation, the suffering will have an answer, justice will be served, and let that be the end of it—one way or another.

Starting Location: North east of the Mountains of Mourn, within the Great Steppe, in a small forest crisscrossed by many small streams and rivers

Your People: The Bajdrag look like nothing so much as a bipedal, shorter dragon; shorter than most humans, even. However, the fire of the dragon burns within you still, and each strike strikes with their fury. Your scales are more supple than it seems they should be, though in turn they do not offer the kind of protection of a deeply rigid sort. You are particularly quick. Your color varies as much as that of your draconic ancestors.

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The Qrimneri

You were not, and then you were. From one moment, to the next, you were dead, and then you lived. Images of the rising sun casting away the darkness, of great bolts of lightning splitting the blanket above. Of a great stag hunter running about the world and its many forests, horn blowing and ax raised up high. Of a wolf's howl, and a great billowing storm that shakes the earth, biting deep with its frost. Of a mountain breaker, a mountain cleaver, a mountain shaker stemming a tide of impossibility. And of a great bird, dead and living, living and dead, in a great cycle playing again and again and again, forever fighting against the bull and the raven and the toad and the snake with all the might it possessed, and that it seemed in the recesses of your mind was only right and proper for to fight against such was good.

All of this and more shot through your nascent mind as you were for lack of a better term born, thrust from nonexistence in one second to thought and feeling in the next, screaming as you went about the matter. You were surrounded then by those like you, that looked like you, and thought it was good; and they were your people, and you were theirs; so you stumbled to the great black lake that unstretched before you like the endless night sky above.

You looked at your reflection and saw within overhead the moon; and it above your head shone like a great helmet protecting from any evil. Unmarred silver seemed to flow from it like droplets down upon the mantle of your flesh. And then entering the blackness above a great green evil, a sliver of green sickness, a thing that should not be. And yet it was, and it struck for the strings of your souls—only to find itself wanting, as the silver burned even brighter around the lot of you. You lived; but knew that not to seek safety from it was to tempt fate more than could be justified. So now you must find some safety from the hell-moon, the evil moon, the twister and cutter of fate. And then there is the matter of the others, not like your tribe, that must be found ere their souls should be infected by the bleak touch of the vile moon and not the great silver mistress above. For you know not what bleak thing lies in that hellish path, but you know no good can come of it, not for you nor any others who stumble upon them. Of course this leaves you with a question: are there, in fact, others? Such sounds right…but, except for the moons, both the good and the evil, you know of nothing else, righteous or vile, on this world. For all you know you and the moons and the lake and the outlying peaks are all of existence, all that there is or could be in reality. You doubt it, but it could be so.

Starting Location: On the shores of the Black Water

Your People: Tall and strong and enduring, if not so tall and strong and enduring as some creatures that exist—that is to say, a human could be comparable to you though you are likely to be stronger than one who has put in an equivalent effort. Your skin is a number of shades of blue and purple, and a crop of hair of any number of colors grows from your skull. Tusks, small but sharp, erupt from the bottom of your jaw. Your nails are nails and not claws, but they are somewhat sharper than expected and somewhat durable.

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A Human Tribe

Humanity has spread its wings across all the face of the world; but from another tribe, shall rise a great realm. As humanity is the most malleable among all the species currently on the planet, you will be able to greatly influence this rising power.

- "Hung": Humans living in the northwestern portion of the land the Dark Elves call Naggaroth, they enjoy conflating you with…whatever a "Hung" is. Though many of you have fallen to the worship of evil, your tribe resists, and endures; much as you resist, and endure, the depravities of the Dark Elves.

- Khuresh: The Snakemen of the Sun and the Snakemen of the Moon fight among each other, and humanity is caught in the middle. Well you have no love of such a notion, so you will fight them, and their servants as well, and the beastmen come—in fact, to put none-too-fine a point on it, you will fight every foe.

- Amazonian: Outsiders sometimes speak of amazons; but they would be much better served by speaking of the Amazon Nations, for there is no unity among you, not as the Old Ones left you in any case. But do not weep and do not worry, for your people shall unite the tribes and reclaim all that was taken from you!

-Albion: The kingdom of Albion was united; and then, it wasn't. Your people lost everything, and the land was drowned under a fog of bleakness and despair. But now you hear tell that the Cyclopses and the Greenmen and the Beasts are all trying to attack your home, and that must not stand. What are you to do except take on the legacy of the Spear Wolf, and drive them all back into the sea?

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To further clarify: whereas one of the prebuilt races would mean getting immediately into character creation, a Human Tribe would mean going first into more proper tribal generation, and then into character creation.

Please do not post for like, five minutes, until I'm done actually reserving posts. I will say this is definitely going to be my "I need to relax and shoot the shit" quest. I feel the need to particularly thank @soulcake since I first had the idea for this in Rhunrikki. I feel the need to say these names are like, the equivalent of Dawi and Asur.