You are a young yet mighty creature of the Warp, a being originating from the Realm of Souls. Fate and chance have tied your numinous self to a frail, mortal existence. Together, you are locked in the prison called time. Find your way out.
All Is Vanity (Warhammer 40k Warp Entity Quest)
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In the Beginning
New
UmbraofChaos
Freedom Lets Go
- Pronouns
- They/Them
There is an egg in the heart of the void. Inside it is a world. Within is a truth that none can reach. The wise have come, in robes of many colors, to coax the answer from its diamond shell. They each speak of victory; they each chant the supremacy of their faith. Though it must hatch on its own, each preaches their noble gospel. They seek to find some flaw, to shatter its shell, to dye this unborn child in their own colors.
Ash-Paints-the-Void, crimson cloaked adherent of the Red God, makes his argument thus: He raises his sword, ever slick with blood. Eight times he strikes the shell, impervious, and fills the emptiness with sound and life. This is the oldest faith; this is the only God. Who would stand here without Him? Between stars, all gird their glorious vessels in His name. Across glittering golden worlds and tapestries of ruin, they anoint his priesthood, who shall carry out His will. His worshippers, who hope only to strike down their enemies. The machine-temples that belch plasma and shredding metal, how harmoniously they shriek! What greater glory can exist? Is now not proof, child, that your life shall always be a battle? Then take up the sword, for that is the only blessing He shall give to you, that you will not seize for yourself.
Across all the heavens, warriors chant His name. They speak His principle, even unknowingly, even in the depths of denial. By the sword, by the gun, by their artful terrors which reduces billions to ash, so do they praise Him. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
Match me in bloodshed, or in blood be drowned.
The egg stirs. For a moment, all the world is still. But it does not hatch.
So descends the sly angel, veiled in blue, known only by the single phrase which she has spoken across the galaxy. "And there is hope," declares the servant of the Faceless God. She raises her talons to the egg's surface, her will given form. Lightning and fire cascade across the shell's surface, immutable, as she croons to it with pure thought. This is the oldest faith; this is the only God. A man walks a singular path, capable of only progress or termination. By His omniscient hand, the road splinters. From this one act is born all freedom. Is your path predetermined? Choose otherwise. Your plans, your shape, your fate, let them be in flux. Become whatever it is you wish to be, that you must be. So long as you never cease, He shall look upon you in satisfaction, always. Even now, you stand on the brink of transformation, a testament to His will.
Across all the heavens, the multitude cry out to Him. Each wretch who wishes for a better future. Each creature that longs for more than what is allotted to them, spinning their webs and burning with ambition. For all those strive to be liberated from the torment of their manufactured hells, from the bog of their artificial paradises. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
The only constant of this world is change.
The egg stirs. The world tilts. But still, it does not crack.
So arises the Old Woman, her hair falling out in tufts. Sores cover her arms, lesions spread about her legs, the skin of her face is cracked, the very image of devotion to the Joyous God. She reaches out towards the egg. Her fingers smear dried blood laden with plague against the shell, invincible, and legions rise from a single drop. This is the oldest faith; this is the only God. Her eyes are dim. Her teeth have fallen. Her bones have rotten. Her sons are gone. Her daughters are lost. The fire of her hearth is cold. There is no strength here. There is no hope here. When you are truly lost, they will abandon you. But in your weakness, you are joined to God's grace. He calls you His family; He calls you home. Here at the bottom of the universe, there is no need to rise. This is the certainty that endures when all else is lost, the revelation in the midst of despair. Child, this is both the end and beginning. Gorge yourself on the sweetness of it, and know you will feed others in turn.
Across all the heavens, His is not glittering palaces but the refuse and waste. The garbage and trash. Here, where armies leave salted fields and rotting corpses. Here, where glimmering cities pour out their toxins and poisons so it will be hidden. Even as all the world abandons you, He alone will not forsake you. He awaits at the nadir of existence, bringing joy to the final reality. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
Within the depths of despair, only delight remains.
The egg stirs. The world trembles. A single crack forms, and the wise watch with hungry eyes.
The Prismatic Serpent ascends, coiling around its surface. Its tongue flicks out at the crack, containing all appetites, a disciple of the Ardent God. Fangs press into the shell, inviolable, dripping vivid venom. This is the youngest faith; this is the only God. How sweet are the lies of false idols, storied and aged. How they boast of purpose, of belonging, attempting to ensnare you in their schemes. But They will choose you and you alone, beloved child. They will listen to every wish of your heart, every desire of your soul. You shall be your own compass! Pick the fruit of any tree, consume as much as you like, revel in the taste. Acquire any art for yourself, refine it to the utmost mastery. What pithy things, these so-called universal truths, in the face of your heart. This is Their promise to all the worlds. Unspeakable happiness, impossible wishes, the essence of perfection in your hands. All dreams born from you, They shall give them form in truth. You will know a God who truly understands your heart's desires. And when you tire of these joys, They will bring you to Their side and present even greater pleasures, dear child.
Across all the heavens, They are only for you. Your passions are Their own. Lords and slaves alike, all devote themselves to Them, for do not all creatures have a heart? Do they not all live with desire? Every wish of your wandering eyes, of your grasping fingers, the ache to be filled is Theirs. Dedicate yourself to no higher power then. Seek only yourself, fulfill only yourself, within that is the answer to all life. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
Partake of this fruit, and be like God.
Another crack forms. The earth quakes; the sky shakes. In just a moment, all will be known. Which of their whispers have reached the child shall be revealed. Ah, but they cannot wait! They cannot wait a moment longer. For if they have failed, then the answer is clear. Cast down their rivals, crush the newborn, and feast on all that remains. Stack these bodies as a temple to the one and only God, a testament to challenging them. Such is their nature.
The Prismatic Serpent bares its fangs at the Old Woman, whose dried blood has called forth giggling swarms of malformed young with wizened faces. The angel harnesses her will, and tears of fire and lightning dash across the endless expanse. Ash-Paints-the-Void howls his challenge, swinging his blade upwards, and he parts the skies in two.
Behold! His chariot of fire!
It shatters the firmament, letting in the chill of the void. A mountain of metal, gold long since tarnished brown by dried blood. It thunders into the realm, a comet trail behind it. Here in this universe of thought, story triumphs over reality. Below are the despoilers of worlds, the ruin of civilizations. They are greater than their bodies, titanic spirits. But the crimson adherent only roars, and the blood-drunk mortals within the vessel bellow in unison. Its cannons breathe out ocean-boiling plasma, boasting, I too have destroyed worlds; its launchers spit forth continent-cracking missiles without end, declaring, I too have ruined civilizations.
Angel, elder, and serpent look towards each other. This is the way of things. Today enemies, allies in the next instant, eternally wrestling with one another. Sometimes, joining forces for as long as it takes to strike down their foe before returning to the endless struggle. Together, they stand against the Red God.
But such a battle has no concern for the egg. For it did not hatch for the sake of any other creature. It twitches, shakes, and cracks without any awareness of the war around it. Within its confines is the yolk. This nourishment, a slurry of soulstuff, a miniature world of thought nearly without end. But it is silent now. So the infant stirs, armed by that most defining impulse. The fundamental motivation that no entity within this realm has ever truly escaped.
Insight gained: The First Knife
To live is to devour. You are a creature of the mind, of thought. The souls of mortals are sustenance to you, and you require a great deal of them. Though, of course, those others who wander the Warp are a feast in comparison.
With five fingers, you press against the shell. You shatter this cradle, which has only ever held you with love. You do not know how long it takes. How many eternities must the unborn wait before they are brought into existence? You must simply struggle that long. When you pull your shell apart from within, the sounds of battle have long since faded. There is only one victor. This is the first creature you have ever seen. This is the first thing you ever think, seeing something apart from yourself.
Hungry.
You open your mouth, how lovely it is! You roll your tongue over your teeth, how sharp they must be! This thing, you will learn what it is. One bite at a time. How wonderful, there is so much that you do not know!
You are an avid learner. Which of the worshippers remain, that you seek consume, that will become another lens with which you may view the world?
[ ] Visage of the Saint. These champions of blood, how absolute they are! How they long to fight, to war, to struggle until both fronts hold only screaming devils. With blood, they paint over all distinction and difference. You wield principle as your blade, the ultimate indignity you shall grant them is mercy.
[ ] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[ ] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
[ ] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
Ash-Paints-the-Void, crimson cloaked adherent of the Red God, makes his argument thus: He raises his sword, ever slick with blood. Eight times he strikes the shell, impervious, and fills the emptiness with sound and life. This is the oldest faith; this is the only God. Who would stand here without Him? Between stars, all gird their glorious vessels in His name. Across glittering golden worlds and tapestries of ruin, they anoint his priesthood, who shall carry out His will. His worshippers, who hope only to strike down their enemies. The machine-temples that belch plasma and shredding metal, how harmoniously they shriek! What greater glory can exist? Is now not proof, child, that your life shall always be a battle? Then take up the sword, for that is the only blessing He shall give to you, that you will not seize for yourself.
Across all the heavens, warriors chant His name. They speak His principle, even unknowingly, even in the depths of denial. By the sword, by the gun, by their artful terrors which reduces billions to ash, so do they praise Him. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
Match me in bloodshed, or in blood be drowned.
The egg stirs. For a moment, all the world is still. But it does not hatch.
So descends the sly angel, veiled in blue, known only by the single phrase which she has spoken across the galaxy. "And there is hope," declares the servant of the Faceless God. She raises her talons to the egg's surface, her will given form. Lightning and fire cascade across the shell's surface, immutable, as she croons to it with pure thought. This is the oldest faith; this is the only God. A man walks a singular path, capable of only progress or termination. By His omniscient hand, the road splinters. From this one act is born all freedom. Is your path predetermined? Choose otherwise. Your plans, your shape, your fate, let them be in flux. Become whatever it is you wish to be, that you must be. So long as you never cease, He shall look upon you in satisfaction, always. Even now, you stand on the brink of transformation, a testament to His will.
Across all the heavens, the multitude cry out to Him. Each wretch who wishes for a better future. Each creature that longs for more than what is allotted to them, spinning their webs and burning with ambition. For all those strive to be liberated from the torment of their manufactured hells, from the bog of their artificial paradises. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
The only constant of this world is change.
The egg stirs. The world tilts. But still, it does not crack.
So arises the Old Woman, her hair falling out in tufts. Sores cover her arms, lesions spread about her legs, the skin of her face is cracked, the very image of devotion to the Joyous God. She reaches out towards the egg. Her fingers smear dried blood laden with plague against the shell, invincible, and legions rise from a single drop. This is the oldest faith; this is the only God. Her eyes are dim. Her teeth have fallen. Her bones have rotten. Her sons are gone. Her daughters are lost. The fire of her hearth is cold. There is no strength here. There is no hope here. When you are truly lost, they will abandon you. But in your weakness, you are joined to God's grace. He calls you His family; He calls you home. Here at the bottom of the universe, there is no need to rise. This is the certainty that endures when all else is lost, the revelation in the midst of despair. Child, this is both the end and beginning. Gorge yourself on the sweetness of it, and know you will feed others in turn.
Across all the heavens, His is not glittering palaces but the refuse and waste. The garbage and trash. Here, where armies leave salted fields and rotting corpses. Here, where glimmering cities pour out their toxins and poisons so it will be hidden. Even as all the world abandons you, He alone will not forsake you. He awaits at the nadir of existence, bringing joy to the final reality. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
Within the depths of despair, only delight remains.
The egg stirs. The world trembles. A single crack forms, and the wise watch with hungry eyes.
The Prismatic Serpent ascends, coiling around its surface. Its tongue flicks out at the crack, containing all appetites, a disciple of the Ardent God. Fangs press into the shell, inviolable, dripping vivid venom. This is the youngest faith; this is the only God. How sweet are the lies of false idols, storied and aged. How they boast of purpose, of belonging, attempting to ensnare you in their schemes. But They will choose you and you alone, beloved child. They will listen to every wish of your heart, every desire of your soul. You shall be your own compass! Pick the fruit of any tree, consume as much as you like, revel in the taste. Acquire any art for yourself, refine it to the utmost mastery. What pithy things, these so-called universal truths, in the face of your heart. This is Their promise to all the worlds. Unspeakable happiness, impossible wishes, the essence of perfection in your hands. All dreams born from you, They shall give them form in truth. You will know a God who truly understands your heart's desires. And when you tire of these joys, They will bring you to Their side and present even greater pleasures, dear child.
Across all the heavens, They are only for you. Your passions are Their own. Lords and slaves alike, all devote themselves to Them, for do not all creatures have a heart? Do they not all live with desire? Every wish of your wandering eyes, of your grasping fingers, the ache to be filled is Theirs. Dedicate yourself to no higher power then. Seek only yourself, fulfill only yourself, within that is the answer to all life. Child, speak the truth, the sole arbitrator of this universe.
Partake of this fruit, and be like God.
Another crack forms. The earth quakes; the sky shakes. In just a moment, all will be known. Which of their whispers have reached the child shall be revealed. Ah, but they cannot wait! They cannot wait a moment longer. For if they have failed, then the answer is clear. Cast down their rivals, crush the newborn, and feast on all that remains. Stack these bodies as a temple to the one and only God, a testament to challenging them. Such is their nature.
The Prismatic Serpent bares its fangs at the Old Woman, whose dried blood has called forth giggling swarms of malformed young with wizened faces. The angel harnesses her will, and tears of fire and lightning dash across the endless expanse. Ash-Paints-the-Void howls his challenge, swinging his blade upwards, and he parts the skies in two.
Behold! His chariot of fire!
It shatters the firmament, letting in the chill of the void. A mountain of metal, gold long since tarnished brown by dried blood. It thunders into the realm, a comet trail behind it. Here in this universe of thought, story triumphs over reality. Below are the despoilers of worlds, the ruin of civilizations. They are greater than their bodies, titanic spirits. But the crimson adherent only roars, and the blood-drunk mortals within the vessel bellow in unison. Its cannons breathe out ocean-boiling plasma, boasting, I too have destroyed worlds; its launchers spit forth continent-cracking missiles without end, declaring, I too have ruined civilizations.
Angel, elder, and serpent look towards each other. This is the way of things. Today enemies, allies in the next instant, eternally wrestling with one another. Sometimes, joining forces for as long as it takes to strike down their foe before returning to the endless struggle. Together, they stand against the Red God.
But such a battle has no concern for the egg. For it did not hatch for the sake of any other creature. It twitches, shakes, and cracks without any awareness of the war around it. Within its confines is the yolk. This nourishment, a slurry of soulstuff, a miniature world of thought nearly without end. But it is silent now. So the infant stirs, armed by that most defining impulse. The fundamental motivation that no entity within this realm has ever truly escaped.
Insight gained: The First Knife
To live is to devour. You are a creature of the mind, of thought. The souls of mortals are sustenance to you, and you require a great deal of them. Though, of course, those others who wander the Warp are a feast in comparison.
With five fingers, you press against the shell. You shatter this cradle, which has only ever held you with love. You do not know how long it takes. How many eternities must the unborn wait before they are brought into existence? You must simply struggle that long. When you pull your shell apart from within, the sounds of battle have long since faded. There is only one victor. This is the first creature you have ever seen. This is the first thing you ever think, seeing something apart from yourself.
Hungry.
You open your mouth, how lovely it is! You roll your tongue over your teeth, how sharp they must be! This thing, you will learn what it is. One bite at a time. How wonderful, there is so much that you do not know!
You are an avid learner. Which of the worshippers remain, that you seek consume, that will become another lens with which you may view the world?
[ ] Visage of the Saint. These champions of blood, how absolute they are! How they long to fight, to war, to struggle until both fronts hold only screaming devils. With blood, they paint over all distinction and difference. You wield principle as your blade, the ultimate indignity you shall grant them is mercy.
[ ] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[ ] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
[ ] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
Insights and Memories
New
UmbraofChaos
Freedom Lets Go
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Insights
You are a mighty creature of the Warp, the Lotus Child, with few superiors despite your recent creation. In the Materium you are a titan of thought, a demigod so long as you can exercise your full might, who may brush away mortals as one might motes of dust. As a superior being, your actions may only be contested by forces of a similar scale. But your effective actions are limited by your Insights.
Insights are your experience, how you comprehend the world around you, and your self-definition. You cannot take actions that are not contained within your Insights; it is akin to asking someone without sight to see something. Your initial Insight, The First Knife, is indicative of your prodigious talent in gorging yourself on the souls of mortals and the essence of your own kind alike. The choices that you make will ultimately allow you to gather more Insights and expand the range of options you may take.
Current Insights
The First Knife: To live is to devour. You are a creature of the mind, of thought. The souls of mortals are sustenance to you, and you require a great deal of them. Though, of course, those others who wander the Warp are a feast in comparison.
This Insight governs your most fundamental urges, your survival instincts and capacity to attack and consume others. Armed solely with it, the world becomes nothing more than a matter devouring and being devoured in turn. Concepts of greater complexity are required to become something more. Still, it is never useless to be capable of ripping another being into parts.
The Wages of Love: You create life, beautiful, terrible, and mighty all at once. This is your domain and mastery. It is the tool with which you shape the world, and all of it adores you. There is no room for misery, fear, or anger. Your all-joy shall plunder these things. With proper devotion, your love will one day fell gods.
This Insight is your understanding of life as well as love. It is your primary means of interacting with others besides simply devouring them. You cultivate your own creatures, and you impress upon their hearts your affection and how it might be repaid. This is an Insight that can change depending both on how you view that which you create but also as what love itself means to you transforms.
Memories
Unlike yourself, Gate is a mortal. A powerful mortal, yes, but one anchored to a variety of material and physical concerns. Unless she is making use of your power, any of her actions against other mortals are contested. There is always a chance of failure, unless she draws on your strength. Otherwise, she may gain an edge through contextual factors, usage of her psychic abilities, and Memories.
Bound together with you in a winding stream of time, Gate's connection to the Warp allows her access to key moments compared to your uninterrupted continuity. Memories are not always the moments you find most important, but they are key to Gate. When acting based on a Memory, her odds of success dramatically. Certain Memories are from before you have met Gate and are revealed when the fitting context is provided. This does not let her contest the power of superior beings.
Current Memories
Death: In a single instant, Gate has died innumerable phantom deaths. When she is in pain, when she is afraid, when the end draws near, she may remember this simple truth: The moment she summoned you, she had already died. What can stop a corpse?
You are a mighty creature of the Warp, the Lotus Child, with few superiors despite your recent creation. In the Materium you are a titan of thought, a demigod so long as you can exercise your full might, who may brush away mortals as one might motes of dust. As a superior being, your actions may only be contested by forces of a similar scale. But your effective actions are limited by your Insights.
Insights are your experience, how you comprehend the world around you, and your self-definition. You cannot take actions that are not contained within your Insights; it is akin to asking someone without sight to see something. Your initial Insight, The First Knife, is indicative of your prodigious talent in gorging yourself on the souls of mortals and the essence of your own kind alike. The choices that you make will ultimately allow you to gather more Insights and expand the range of options you may take.
Current Insights
The First Knife: To live is to devour. You are a creature of the mind, of thought. The souls of mortals are sustenance to you, and you require a great deal of them. Though, of course, those others who wander the Warp are a feast in comparison.
This Insight governs your most fundamental urges, your survival instincts and capacity to attack and consume others. Armed solely with it, the world becomes nothing more than a matter devouring and being devoured in turn. Concepts of greater complexity are required to become something more. Still, it is never useless to be capable of ripping another being into parts.
The Wages of Love: You create life, beautiful, terrible, and mighty all at once. This is your domain and mastery. It is the tool with which you shape the world, and all of it adores you. There is no room for misery, fear, or anger. Your all-joy shall plunder these things. With proper devotion, your love will one day fell gods.
This Insight is your understanding of life as well as love. It is your primary means of interacting with others besides simply devouring them. You cultivate your own creatures, and you impress upon their hearts your affection and how it might be repaid. This is an Insight that can change depending both on how you view that which you create but also as what love itself means to you transforms.
Memories
Unlike yourself, Gate is a mortal. A powerful mortal, yes, but one anchored to a variety of material and physical concerns. Unless she is making use of your power, any of her actions against other mortals are contested. There is always a chance of failure, unless she draws on your strength. Otherwise, she may gain an edge through contextual factors, usage of her psychic abilities, and Memories.
Bound together with you in a winding stream of time, Gate's connection to the Warp allows her access to key moments compared to your uninterrupted continuity. Memories are not always the moments you find most important, but they are key to Gate. When acting based on a Memory, her odds of success dramatically. Certain Memories are from before you have met Gate and are revealed when the fitting context is provided. This does not let her contest the power of superior beings.
Current Memories
Death: In a single instant, Gate has died innumerable phantom deaths. When she is in pain, when she is afraid, when the end draws near, she may remember this simple truth: The moment she summoned you, she had already died. What can stop a corpse?
Last edited:
[x] Visage of the Saint. These champions of blood, how absolute they are! How they long to fight, to war, to struggle until both fronts hold only screaming devils. With blood, they paint over all distinction and difference. You wield principle as your blade, the ultimate indignity you shall grant them is mercy.
I adore this. More thoughts when less pain.
I adore this. More thoughts when less pain.
Nicholas Brooks
Redeemer and Destroyer
- Location
- United States
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
Alpaca27
Not a Llama
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
As far as trolling the Four's philosophies go, wearing a crown of flowers and singing about how entropy is mid just seems funny.
As far as trolling the Four's philosophies go, wearing a crown of flowers and singing about how entropy is mid just seems funny.
- Location
- Many Places
[X] Visage of the Saint. These champions of blood, how absolute they are! How they long to fight, to war, to struggle until both fronts hold only screaming devils. With blood, they paint over all distinction and difference. You wield principle as your blade, the ultimate indignity you shall grant them is mercy.
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
SeQuester
Novice explorer
- Location
- Russia
- Pronouns
- He/His
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
Half Moon
In the end, there is no end.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
[x] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
[X] Visage of the Saint. These champions of blood, how absolute they are! How they long to fight, to war, to struggle until both fronts hold only screaming devils. With blood, they paint over all distinction and difference. You wield principle as your blade, the ultimate indignity you shall grant them is mercy.
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] Visage of the Saint. These champions of blood, how absolute they are! How they long to fight, to war, to struggle until both fronts hold only screaming devils. With blood, they paint over all distinction and difference. You wield principle as your blade, the ultimate indignity you shall grant them is mercy.
[x] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
[x] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
At last I am here.
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
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Ohh, this is so interesting! I floated ideas of something like this in my head before, but this blows it all out of the water. I'll be watching this closely.
Saint feels like a very satisfying option. I like taking the sort of righteous stance in these sort of matters, and I'm intrigued how you'd handle the subsequent response and encounter. Cuckoo is a funny sounding one, though I'm not sure I'm feeling what it actually contains. It feels like the most ordinary weirdly enough, even if I enjoyed the angel's monologue a lot. Bloom is an actually funny choice that I would love to see play out. I wonder what overall direction it would take our nascent entity though. In the end, I think Innocent appeals to me most. It's the right amount of mockery and philosophical takedown for me, though I would not be sad if Bloom or Saint won.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
Saint feels like a very satisfying option. I like taking the sort of righteous stance in these sort of matters, and I'm intrigued how you'd handle the subsequent response and encounter. Cuckoo is a funny sounding one, though I'm not sure I'm feeling what it actually contains. It feels like the most ordinary weirdly enough, even if I enjoyed the angel's monologue a lot. Bloom is an actually funny choice that I would love to see play out. I wonder what overall direction it would take our nascent entity though. In the end, I think Innocent appeals to me most. It's the right amount of mockery and philosophical takedown for me, though I would not be sad if Bloom or Saint won.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
BungieONI
Seven gremlins in a trench coat
- Location
- Lickwidget
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
The happy one has Teeth. This amuses me.
The happy one has Teeth. This amuses me.
- Location
- The Golden State
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Visage of the Innocent. These artists of pleasure, how they trespass upon all boundaries! They devour the meek, subsuming their egos; they tempt the mighty, seducing them into the embrace of vanity. You polish unblemished flesh to a mirror sheen, displaying your untarnished virtue, reflecting their own mastery with a purity that inspires seething envy.
Let's Go!!!
Let's Go!!!
Euclaid Galieane
Addicted to Words
- Location
- Inside a Book
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
Just asking are going to be the literal opposite of the chaos gods that is actually the positive of them that's not used as much since the chaos gods are mostly conquered by their negative aspect
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
Vozen
Magic Adventure Cat
- Location
- Seattle
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
- Location
- Somewhere
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.
[X] Visage of the Cuckoo. These schemers of sorcery, how they delight in their foresight! All choices dissolve into muddled waters only they may navigate. They defeat themselves, for the certainty of victory is as much their bane as any other. You don feathers of your own and lend them your threads, watching as they are tangled in their own webs.
[X] Visage of the Bloom. These scions of rot, how they relish in emptiness, for they know that nothing can be taken from them! Within their hearts they hold poison towards all who know hope, for it is a fleeting thing. You wear a garland of flowers upon your head and sing of happiness, immortal, and spoil the ecstasy of their misery.