As I remember Skullstone was like, a sham where half the ghosts were turned to soulsteel for a war against the living.
I mean a legitimate, not sham, polity.
Yes, but Scavenger Sons Skullstone wasn't a sham. It was a legit necrarchy.
General Exalted Thread
Yes, but Scavenger Sons Skullstone wasn't a sham. It was a legit necrarchy.
- Location
- New York City
Yeah, at least in 1e and 3e it really is that. Maybe Island Five in 2e is responsible for the confusion.
I suspect that ghosts might be differently valued in the Shining Path but that its focus on Oblivion suggests to me that ghosts wouldn't be seen the way they are in Skullstone.
I suspect that ghosts might be differently valued in the Shining Path but that its focus on Oblivion suggests to me that ghosts wouldn't be seen the way they are in Skullstone.
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Mankalvar! May your towers forever reach to the Heavens! Mankalvar! May your thirteen founding clans find in death an immortality of power and leisure! Mankalvar! City of Stone and Lacquer, ruling in the northeast!This Deathlord discussion suggests to me that it would be interesting if you had a society which believed that ghost-dom was a superior form of life, and you spent your mortal life preparing for your new life as a ghost, setting things up for what they consider to be your True Life, as a ghost.
As an amusing thought, because the balance of power for ghosts is much more even than the balance of power for mortal societies, you could even have it be a vaguely Greco-Roman democratic state, which contrasts really well with how necromancy and undead are typically portrayed as 'icky.' Given how the undead work it'd probably be a relatively dysfunctional democratic state, but that just makes it more hilarious.
In which the entire city is ultimately subservient to their ancestors' city in the Underworld, a gold-and-marble reflection of their city of wood and granite. Immense tower-temples are built to house the cinders of the dead and the many altars at which they are worshipped. All who bear a name hope to one day shed their body of flesh and descend to a greater, eternal life in wealth and glory, sustained by their own descendents.
(Pay no attention to the fact that the majority of the population have no family names and genealogical records and thus no ancestors to worship, and in death are doomed to Lethe or slavery.)
From how Skullstone is described in Scavenger Sons, though, you apparently can't become a ghost there unless the Black Judges make you one. It flat out says only one in eight living residents get the honor of becoming ghosts, which is still a different society from what I think MJ12 Commando was aiming for.
What I was thinking was vaguely Greco-Roman democracy meets 19th century American racial-class tensions.
A civilization lead by its undead citizens for its undead citizens, which often uses the promise of "ascension" or whatever they call becoming a ghost as a reward dangled in front of its living citizens to keep them content despite rampant inequality and pro-undead policies which effectively disenfranchise them even as they provide much of the work that the society needs to sustain itself.
Or something like that. A place which can legitimately call itself a Democratic Republic and say that its citizens are all free peoples who are allowed to have a say in government (let's just ignore that all living people are not Citizens). And possibly suffering from societal upheaval as the population of Citizens grows and it starts needing more and more resources to sustain this level of inequality and etc.
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Isn't that a total waste of good prayer-capacity? I don't think large demographics worshiping no one is a stable situation in Creation; some enterprising spirits should be moving in to fill the void.
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"It is the ambition of all nameless ones to rise above this status. There are two ways to do so: one is to leave children and die, becoming their ancestor and thus founding a petty clan. This is the road taken by most of labourers who lack the personal skills to attract the attention of the wealthy and powerful. Those with unique skills prefer to find their way into a patronage, becoming the client of an already-existing clan - preferably a greater clan. A client receives the favors of his patron's ancestor as if she herself had a family, and with good enough services may even be adopted into the family, guaranteeing her children a stable position in Mankalvar's society. Skilled craftsmen, scholars and warriors of renown often join families in such a way, though the process takes years and involves many initiations rites aiming to ensure loyalty to their newfound clan.
There are many, however, who have no hope of ever joining a clan, because they toil in such poverty that, even should they have children, these will not be able to provide the prayers and offerings that cement the link between the dead and the living. Whether they resent their situation or shrug it off, these are the true core of the nameless throng: the solitary individuals, without family or hope to create a family, who fall outside the social conventions of Mankalvar and are the subject of pity, fear and scorn. Many a priest of the dead officiates as a charity worker to these people in hope of maintaining a social link between them and the religious organization of the city and avoid the formation of an independant criminal underground with no respect for the dead. They are only mildly successful. Many nameless ones become crows haunting the granite canopy of the city, where they store and fence the product of petty thievery and other crimes. Some gather in limited criminal networks, often targeting their nameless brethrens but sometimes expanding their activities to minor petty clans, often running protection rackets for the smallest churches."
Essentially, the ancestor-less underclass labours either under the hope of "making it someday," or turn into criminal gangs.
Yeah, I saw that. So where are the patrons of the criminal gangs? Where's the heretical cult of the God of Orphans in Manklavar? The tiny secret shrines to minor spirits who'll do their petitioners some favors, attended by Nameless hoping that this'll be the edge they need to start a petty clan and die with their dirty little secret forgotten? The elementals who take Nameless lovers hoping to one day be the living ancestor of a successful godblooded clan? The ghosts who are not your ancestor, but will totally pretend they are? This is a big unfilled niche, and I'd expect to see a lot more minor players trying to fill it. The Lord of Voices is there, but he's a strange and questionably-sane figure with questionably-sane followers; where are the not-crazy opportunists?
- Location
- Ottawa
You know, a straight transplant of Amonkhet from MtG into Exalted might be pretty cool.
God damn it, the new set is out already?!
Speaking of transplanting settings, how would one go about trying to demon lords and whatnot from D&D into Exalted? I rather like the idea of the Abyss as an antagonistic force, a sort of missing link between the madness of Chaos/the Wyld and the insane legalism of Malfeas (its sort of amusing that in Exalted, Hell is still broadly Lawful Evil thanks to Cecelyne).
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- Location
- Pittsburgh, PA
Hey, good news; turns out only the top layer of skin came off!
I like the Christians-through-Roman-eyes idea, but you could totally add to it by remembering that the Romans believed that Christians were actively pissing in the gods' cereal. So you have branches of the "Shining Path" that are dedicated to trashing gods' altars, despoiling their offerings, killing their godblooded offspring, and even trying to find ways of destroying their sanctums* because they believe the gods are the wardens of the jail that is Creation, so fuck those guys.
Meanwhile, the Underworld is going to have cults that try to mine Neverborn-minted goods out of the Labyrinth, or build creepy skeleton cathedrals to the Neverborn, or just roam around murdering any ghost who doesn't already hail the Neverborn - because the thing to remember is that even Whispers don't really change a ghost's primal Passions (unless they reach the point where they've gone totally feral). A builder-ghost that gets corrupted is still going to build things, corrupted war-ghosts still fight above all else. Even the Bishop himself is still, under all the rhetoric & spiritual contamination, a Zenith. Becoming a deathlord changed him in several ways, but his defining Passion of "preaching a divinity's message" is still the same as it ever was.
* Not that they have much chance; still, it wouldn't stop cults from trying. More worrisome is what happens when they decide to try and destroy a god's domain - throwing ritually-consecrated (desecrated) bones into a river-god's river over the span of years to gradually pollute it with necrotic Essence, fomenting civil unrest in order to burn down a city with riots and take its god along for the ride, etc.
Lealope
Not yet invincible
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Is there any brave, beautiful soul willing to do this?
EarthScorpion Setting Homebrew: Khamor, the Drowned City
Khamor
In the South East of Taira lies the Khamor shadowland a tainted body of dark water surrounded by sparely vegetated mountains. At the heart of the cursed place lies Old Khamor, where countless rotting structures emerge from the icy river, overshadowed in a high canyon. Few would choose to live in such a place - save that the fastest way to Perswha from the Grey River leads through Khamor.
As a result, now many barges are moored to the rotting ruins of Old Khamor, and tar-coated structures have been built on the old stone buildings. Phosphorescent fungi and burning torches illuminate the permanent gloom. Traders try not to stay here too long, because there is an unhealthy scent to the air. The naib rules from the remnants of an old Shogunate palace, and buys slaves and sets them free - on the condition that they stay here to man the docks and catch the bitter-tasting fish that make up the mainstay of the diet here.
Some come to Old Khamor to seek their fortune, rather than just passing through. The structures here are marvels of the Shogunate, tens of stories high, and the city is still flooded to a depth of five storeys. There are wonders down below; all men know this. Brave souls come to this city and venture down into the flooded levels. Some hold their breath; others carry lead weights and crude leather breathing sacs; others rely on stranger magics. Some return, carrying treasures and trinkets of the Shogunate. Some find stranger things - relics of civilisations that never came to Khamor, idols of Labyrinthine ore, carvings of a black sun. Others simply never return.
For if one gazes into the waters of Old Khamor, one can see the lands of the Dead, as if through a layer of fog. Those who fall into the water at night are caught up by a current and swept down below. The faces of the drowned gleam in the dark, and sometimes they call to the living. "Come down here," they sing, "where the concerns of life are nothing. Come down, and embrace your fate." Most do not listen, but enough do that the locals stopper their ears with wax when they sleep.
Government
The naib of Khamor is Harouni I, the first of his line and a younger son granted this province because no one else wanted it. When he was a young man, the revelation of Old Khamor seemed like a path to his fortune, but now he is old and he has lived through too many black nights and seen too many horrors to believe that anything can come of his city. Sometimes his thoughts turn to fire, and how it might be better to spend every talent he has on firedust and blow this stinking ruin to smithereens. The government here is not complicated enough to require many lays - the naib rules, with the ex-slaves he buys and frees as the main tool he holds to enforce obedience. In his eyes, the wharf rats who come here understand nothing other than brute force, and that is what he provides.
His daughter, Aletha, is a glutton and an ingrate. She is nearly as fat as she is tall, and is seldom seen without her pipe of hashish. She indulges in decadence because she has seen this city crush the light and the hope from her father. There is no point to conscientiousness or dignified rule in this wretched city, so take pleasure where one can! Aletha rules over the city's vice, and her towers are painted with juice from the glowing fungi so they are the first thing newcomers see. The sound of tile games, drinking, drugs and other vices are a constant refrain - and given the desires of sailors, it is the source of a plurality of the income of the ruling family.
By contrast, his son Radran seems the model of a Tairan nobleman; humble, modest and dignified, but quick with his blade. He was educated in Perswha before the civil war, and came back with a fine marriage. His allies in the city whisper that he is far more suitable than his older sister. Such behavior is a mask. Radran learned dark magics in Perswha, but his discoveries down in flooded Old Khamor make those acts look like child's play. He founded the Cult of the Dark Sun to worship the statues he discovered in the depths, and the madness of the cult has transformed him into a ghoul who hides his proclivities behind a bland face.
Economy
If Harouni I had his way, men would only come to Khamor to trade. They would bring their ships up and down river, and stop by in his port. There they would pay for what he can offer, and then they would depart. The shadowlands food they can grow in Khamor is poor repast, but the shadowland is long enough that many vessels have no choice but to stop here - especially when the strange climate and foetid fungi makes food from the outside spoil.
Alas, even before the civil war he found it necessary to supplement his income by selling licenses to venture down into the flooded city. Fortunately, his son handles this side of things for him. He has expressed his desires that no one wake some ancient horror, and he trusts him with this - certainly more than Harouni would trust his daughter, who would no doubt offer diving licenses to anyone who could pay.
Culture
Few wish to live in a shadowland, and so the population of Old Khamor is made of the downtrodden, the desperate and the desolate. The naib has bought slaves from all over Taira and freed them in return for their oath to remain in the city as free men and women. As a result, a pidgin of Tairan tongues is the common language, which is mutually intelligible with Rivertongue. These former slaves are the foundation of the naib's rule, because he tries his best to do right by them and they show him considerable loyalty in return. By contrast, the outcasts and lawbreakers who come here to avoid trouble are considered automatically suspect. Whenever an argument comes up between one of the naib's former slaves and a freeman, the judgement is almost always in favour of the ex-slave.
The Dead are a fact of life in Old Khamor. It is bad luck to look at the water and see the lands of the Dead, unless one spits in the water immediately afterwards. This is thought to trick the Dead into drinking the spit rather than feasting on your soul. Salt from the Alesian Sea is very valuable and is given as a wedding gift; inviting a man into your house and offering him salted bread is an act of trust and alliance. The locals of Khamor will never invite a person into their dwelling unless they have shared bread in this way - to get around this, dwellings have an outer section where strangers enter, but the private quarters are entirely off limits.
Most feared are the so-called "black nights". When there is no moon in the sky, the Dead come swarming out of the depths, crawling up the towers. Their claws scar the stone and they shriek in the night. The living must retreat back to barges or to bits of buildings where a strong current flows underneath, for the Dead cannot cross flowing water. For a night, spectres rule Old Khamor once more, and all the survivors can do is return in the morning and repair the damage.
History
Once there was a great city here, in a broad valley. Verdant vines wreathed a proud city of the Shogunate. But witches of the Moon destroyed a dam upstream, and Khamor drowned. So much death tore a hole in the world and Khamor fell into the Underworld, immersed in sunless dark water. The water of the river ceased to flow to the Grey River, and instead poured straight into cenotes and other holes that led to the black waterways of the lands of the Dead. The debris from the flood blocked up the valley. Khamor became an icy lake surrounded by dead trees, where the sun seldom shone and strange things happened.
Then, thirty years ago, a landslide broke the plug of debris on the valley, and the valley drained. For the first time in eight hundred years, the light of Creation touched the peaks of long-drowned Khamor. Travellers along the river found tall structures emerging from the altered course of the river.
The fell ways of the Underworld had caused Khamor to sink down, and what had once been a broad valley was now a steep ravine, where the bottom only got light for a few hours a day. Luminsicent fungi grew on the structures and the walls of the canyon, painting the world with a pale, phosphorescent light.
The Dead could tell a darker history of Khamor. Spectres from the Labyrinth swarmed up from the depths, swimming up the Rivers of Death and dwelt in the city which sank into the river-mud. The cancer of Oblivion infected this place, warping it like clay. The bottom layers were coated in the spiritual filth of the Neverborn. A few straggling survivors held out in the upper layers for a few hundred years. Then the spectres ate them all.
And then a chance brought sanity to Khamor once more - but only where the light of the sun shone. The city above water is a shadowland; underwater it is in the Underworld. The buildings are taller than they should be, for in truth drowned Khamor never left the Labyrinth. Swim down deep enough and one will find that the city has no foundations; only madness and rot.
The Cult of the Dark Sun
Down in the depths, there lie many statues lifesize. From a distance, they look like noble champions, but their features are twisted and monstrous. They were carved so exquisitely that one can feel the madness and bloodlust in their eyes. Sunk into the filth and muck, they have lain here for hundreds of years, carved by insane spectres. On the brow of every one of these figures is inset a disk of black metal, that oozes rust across their features. The disk is shaped like a sun.
When one of these statues was found, Radran had it seized. The dark magics he had learned in Perswha told her of its power - and what it could grant him. He made offerings to it, in the style he had learned and visions filled his mind. He learned the ways of the Dead, and how one might take strength by consuming one's fellow man. And he dreamed of a black sun, consuming all light from the sky of Creation.
The cult of the Dark Sun are a tumour in Khamor, and have spread beyond the city. Most of them are ghouls, and many of them have learned to externalise their own po souls. They fatten them on their victims, bloating them with stolen power. Others have mastered the art of breath-theft, sucking out feelings and emotions through the mouth of a sleeping person and bloating their own soul with the power like a Dead sin-eater would. They worship the Black Sun, the sun of the Dead, the sun who shows his face to the living world during the new moon.
Should the cult of the Dark Sun encounter an Abyssal Exalt, they will take them to be an avatar of their faith; their dark messiah and the living incarnation of the statues carved long ago. They will offer their full support with the fanaticism of the damned if the deathknight embraces their prophesied role. It would be so easy for them to seize control of Khamor with the slightest support, and give the Abyssal a trading port in a sizable shadowland. The cult itself could be a potent mystical tool; the cultists might not be the equal of Terrestrial servants, but their mystic powers are notable and their capacity to summon their own po souls fearsome.
And what are those statues? Did mad spectres truly foresee the Abyssal Exalted? If so, how? And if not, what are they? Graven images of the nightmares of murdered titans, dreaming of their Solar killers? What is the Dark Sun of the Underworld and does it even exist?
In the South East of Taira lies the Khamor shadowland a tainted body of dark water surrounded by sparely vegetated mountains. At the heart of the cursed place lies Old Khamor, where countless rotting structures emerge from the icy river, overshadowed in a high canyon. Few would choose to live in such a place - save that the fastest way to Perswha from the Grey River leads through Khamor.
As a result, now many barges are moored to the rotting ruins of Old Khamor, and tar-coated structures have been built on the old stone buildings. Phosphorescent fungi and burning torches illuminate the permanent gloom. Traders try not to stay here too long, because there is an unhealthy scent to the air. The naib rules from the remnants of an old Shogunate palace, and buys slaves and sets them free - on the condition that they stay here to man the docks and catch the bitter-tasting fish that make up the mainstay of the diet here.
Some come to Old Khamor to seek their fortune, rather than just passing through. The structures here are marvels of the Shogunate, tens of stories high, and the city is still flooded to a depth of five storeys. There are wonders down below; all men know this. Brave souls come to this city and venture down into the flooded levels. Some hold their breath; others carry lead weights and crude leather breathing sacs; others rely on stranger magics. Some return, carrying treasures and trinkets of the Shogunate. Some find stranger things - relics of civilisations that never came to Khamor, idols of Labyrinthine ore, carvings of a black sun. Others simply never return.
For if one gazes into the waters of Old Khamor, one can see the lands of the Dead, as if through a layer of fog. Those who fall into the water at night are caught up by a current and swept down below. The faces of the drowned gleam in the dark, and sometimes they call to the living. "Come down here," they sing, "where the concerns of life are nothing. Come down, and embrace your fate." Most do not listen, but enough do that the locals stopper their ears with wax when they sleep.
Government
The naib of Khamor is Harouni I, the first of his line and a younger son granted this province because no one else wanted it. When he was a young man, the revelation of Old Khamor seemed like a path to his fortune, but now he is old and he has lived through too many black nights and seen too many horrors to believe that anything can come of his city. Sometimes his thoughts turn to fire, and how it might be better to spend every talent he has on firedust and blow this stinking ruin to smithereens. The government here is not complicated enough to require many lays - the naib rules, with the ex-slaves he buys and frees as the main tool he holds to enforce obedience. In his eyes, the wharf rats who come here understand nothing other than brute force, and that is what he provides.
His daughter, Aletha, is a glutton and an ingrate. She is nearly as fat as she is tall, and is seldom seen without her pipe of hashish. She indulges in decadence because she has seen this city crush the light and the hope from her father. There is no point to conscientiousness or dignified rule in this wretched city, so take pleasure where one can! Aletha rules over the city's vice, and her towers are painted with juice from the glowing fungi so they are the first thing newcomers see. The sound of tile games, drinking, drugs and other vices are a constant refrain - and given the desires of sailors, it is the source of a plurality of the income of the ruling family.
By contrast, his son Radran seems the model of a Tairan nobleman; humble, modest and dignified, but quick with his blade. He was educated in Perswha before the civil war, and came back with a fine marriage. His allies in the city whisper that he is far more suitable than his older sister. Such behavior is a mask. Radran learned dark magics in Perswha, but his discoveries down in flooded Old Khamor make those acts look like child's play. He founded the Cult of the Dark Sun to worship the statues he discovered in the depths, and the madness of the cult has transformed him into a ghoul who hides his proclivities behind a bland face.
Economy
If Harouni I had his way, men would only come to Khamor to trade. They would bring their ships up and down river, and stop by in his port. There they would pay for what he can offer, and then they would depart. The shadowlands food they can grow in Khamor is poor repast, but the shadowland is long enough that many vessels have no choice but to stop here - especially when the strange climate and foetid fungi makes food from the outside spoil.
Alas, even before the civil war he found it necessary to supplement his income by selling licenses to venture down into the flooded city. Fortunately, his son handles this side of things for him. He has expressed his desires that no one wake some ancient horror, and he trusts him with this - certainly more than Harouni would trust his daughter, who would no doubt offer diving licenses to anyone who could pay.
Culture
Few wish to live in a shadowland, and so the population of Old Khamor is made of the downtrodden, the desperate and the desolate. The naib has bought slaves from all over Taira and freed them in return for their oath to remain in the city as free men and women. As a result, a pidgin of Tairan tongues is the common language, which is mutually intelligible with Rivertongue. These former slaves are the foundation of the naib's rule, because he tries his best to do right by them and they show him considerable loyalty in return. By contrast, the outcasts and lawbreakers who come here to avoid trouble are considered automatically suspect. Whenever an argument comes up between one of the naib's former slaves and a freeman, the judgement is almost always in favour of the ex-slave.
The Dead are a fact of life in Old Khamor. It is bad luck to look at the water and see the lands of the Dead, unless one spits in the water immediately afterwards. This is thought to trick the Dead into drinking the spit rather than feasting on your soul. Salt from the Alesian Sea is very valuable and is given as a wedding gift; inviting a man into your house and offering him salted bread is an act of trust and alliance. The locals of Khamor will never invite a person into their dwelling unless they have shared bread in this way - to get around this, dwellings have an outer section where strangers enter, but the private quarters are entirely off limits.
Most feared are the so-called "black nights". When there is no moon in the sky, the Dead come swarming out of the depths, crawling up the towers. Their claws scar the stone and they shriek in the night. The living must retreat back to barges or to bits of buildings where a strong current flows underneath, for the Dead cannot cross flowing water. For a night, spectres rule Old Khamor once more, and all the survivors can do is return in the morning and repair the damage.
History
Once there was a great city here, in a broad valley. Verdant vines wreathed a proud city of the Shogunate. But witches of the Moon destroyed a dam upstream, and Khamor drowned. So much death tore a hole in the world and Khamor fell into the Underworld, immersed in sunless dark water. The water of the river ceased to flow to the Grey River, and instead poured straight into cenotes and other holes that led to the black waterways of the lands of the Dead. The debris from the flood blocked up the valley. Khamor became an icy lake surrounded by dead trees, where the sun seldom shone and strange things happened.
Then, thirty years ago, a landslide broke the plug of debris on the valley, and the valley drained. For the first time in eight hundred years, the light of Creation touched the peaks of long-drowned Khamor. Travellers along the river found tall structures emerging from the altered course of the river.
The fell ways of the Underworld had caused Khamor to sink down, and what had once been a broad valley was now a steep ravine, where the bottom only got light for a few hours a day. Luminsicent fungi grew on the structures and the walls of the canyon, painting the world with a pale, phosphorescent light.
The Dead could tell a darker history of Khamor. Spectres from the Labyrinth swarmed up from the depths, swimming up the Rivers of Death and dwelt in the city which sank into the river-mud. The cancer of Oblivion infected this place, warping it like clay. The bottom layers were coated in the spiritual filth of the Neverborn. A few straggling survivors held out in the upper layers for a few hundred years. Then the spectres ate them all.
And then a chance brought sanity to Khamor once more - but only where the light of the sun shone. The city above water is a shadowland; underwater it is in the Underworld. The buildings are taller than they should be, for in truth drowned Khamor never left the Labyrinth. Swim down deep enough and one will find that the city has no foundations; only madness and rot.
The Cult of the Dark Sun
Down in the depths, there lie many statues lifesize. From a distance, they look like noble champions, but their features are twisted and monstrous. They were carved so exquisitely that one can feel the madness and bloodlust in their eyes. Sunk into the filth and muck, they have lain here for hundreds of years, carved by insane spectres. On the brow of every one of these figures is inset a disk of black metal, that oozes rust across their features. The disk is shaped like a sun.
When one of these statues was found, Radran had it seized. The dark magics he had learned in Perswha told her of its power - and what it could grant him. He made offerings to it, in the style he had learned and visions filled his mind. He learned the ways of the Dead, and how one might take strength by consuming one's fellow man. And he dreamed of a black sun, consuming all light from the sky of Creation.
The cult of the Dark Sun are a tumour in Khamor, and have spread beyond the city. Most of them are ghouls, and many of them have learned to externalise their own po souls. They fatten them on their victims, bloating them with stolen power. Others have mastered the art of breath-theft, sucking out feelings and emotions through the mouth of a sleeping person and bloating their own soul with the power like a Dead sin-eater would. They worship the Black Sun, the sun of the Dead, the sun who shows his face to the living world during the new moon.
Should the cult of the Dark Sun encounter an Abyssal Exalt, they will take them to be an avatar of their faith; their dark messiah and the living incarnation of the statues carved long ago. They will offer their full support with the fanaticism of the damned if the deathknight embraces their prophesied role. It would be so easy for them to seize control of Khamor with the slightest support, and give the Abyssal a trading port in a sizable shadowland. The cult itself could be a potent mystical tool; the cultists might not be the equal of Terrestrial servants, but their mystic powers are notable and their capacity to summon their own po souls fearsome.
And what are those statues? Did mad spectres truly foresee the Abyssal Exalted? If so, how? And if not, what are they? Graven images of the nightmares of murdered titans, dreaming of their Solar killers? What is the Dark Sun of the Underworld and does it even exist?
Lealope
Not yet invincible
- Pronouns
- She/Her
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Hrm, I wonder what the catch is.
The catch?
Absolutely nothing.
If you're an Abyssal who's willing to be their dark messiah, they'll make it easy for you to take over the entire shadowland and put you in control of the area. You get a cult of ghouls who know dark magic which let them awaken their own pos and use them as JoJo stands, and who do breath eating and the like. Sure, they like to chow down on people, but they're loyal to you. After all, you're the herald of the Dark Sun of the Underworld. Your caste mark shows that you are their destined leader.
... if you're not willing, on the other hand, they're going to be creepy stalker cultists who really want you to be their leader, sempai. Oh, and of course, they're not exactly PR friendly - but if you're sort of the Abyssal who wants them, you probably don't care too much about PR.
- Location
- Pittsburgh, PA
This just reminds of a First Age Solar yidak I thought up a long time ago - a miniature sun of ghostly white flame that wanders within a continent-sized range of the deep Underworld, burning all Dead things which fall within its radiance to putrid, greasy ash. Its roam is roughly marked by the writings it leaves in its wake; garbled passages from the code of law the "parent" Solar penned for his subjects, fragmentary accounts of the Lawbringer's final thoughts, and strings of rabid cursing, all bleached into the stones by its light.
What about when another Abyssal comes around and tries to nab your cult?
Two messiahs enter, one messiah leaves?
Well, if you're inept enough to not have properly re-programmed your cult to adore you personally once you have a hold of them, yes.
Bursting Eagerness Soul
Threadwalking Rating Machine
- Location
- Wisconsin
I get the feeling that I know where Keris's mom is...
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
and last souls for khvarenah
feedback is appreciated really, or even just, like, "please stop"
Apaosha, Duchess of Dust and Ember
Warden Soul of Winter's Rain
Demon of the Second Circle
She is heat and flame and burning, choking, dust. She is cracked lips and cracked earth and the pleas of a thousand thirst-wizened tongues for water, just a cup, just a drop. She is a living drought: the absence of rain, the annihilation of green. Yet she was, from her very inception, a healer. And a healer she remains; nurse and minder to her greater self. When terrible rages wrack the body of Khvarenah and his form twists so dangerously she is there to boil away the clouds and siphon off the rain. When he lapses into lassitude, sullen and withdrawn, she is there to prick him to activity and usher him on. She contains the worst of his bitterness and burns back his spite. She checks his wounded, weeping, heart and forces him to fraternize. To play the part. When he is wounded in the many, many, many skirmishes and clashes between Unquestionable she spins out her stolen moisture and mends his wounds with silvery, fog-like thread. Lesser demons pray to her as an intercessory. Her peers praise her ethic and loyal service.
Why, without her, they say surely Winter's Rain would fall from grace. His cleverness dulled and his schemes reduced to so much snarled yarn. They speak with ignorance. They know nothing of the true battle within his self. Yet Apaosha knows they're still right and she hates them for it.
She is exhausted truth be told. No matter what she does it's never enough. No matter what damage she heals, no matter what slights she soothes, it never lasts. Soon there will be another ragged wound as he pushes his protean form to the limit. Soon there will be another thoughtless comment and he will chew over his secret vendetta and nurture his hatred. What bonds Khvarenah maintains with his cousin Unquestionable always seem strained. What plans he has always seem in critical jeopardy. Should she leave everything would truly and terminally fall to pieces but what can she do if she stays? What meager difference can she make?
At time the Duchess of Dust and Embers entertains fantasies. About how she will bind Sawar and civilize Lilit. About how she will tear down insufferable Seta and discipline roguish Mazatl (for whom she has a particular antipathy). She can't even properly delude herself into believing them possible. Sawar would destroy her and drag her ruined carcass to his domain. Lilit would become perplexed and frustrated and wander off. Whatever humbling plot she devised her uglier sister would endure with good cheer. Whatever punishment she designed Mazatl would only enjoy it (the pervert).
So instead she works. Waiting for some chance, some opportunity, that she has long since despaired of.
Notes and Abilities: The Duchess of Dust and Embers has a curious form. Her face is fashioned of lacquered wood and living chitin, sculpted in imitation of an aging maiden's visage. Framed by the orange and scarlet veils that descend from her peaked, tiered, hat. From her back fans enormous spider-like legs, webbed near the central hub with membranes of leathery skin. The bloated abdomen of a monstrous insect curls from her spine, protruding out of her nun's robes, and heat distortion mantles her shoulders. From the tips of her needle-sharp limbs she draws in moisture. With her spinnerets she crafts it into thread fine enough to close any wound or reattach any limb and with her hidden mandibles she injects something of its essence into the water-sick and water-deprived. She travels astride an ember-flecked dust cloud. Soft-soled feet hanging off the side as she knits.
Sorcerers summon Apaosha to heal grievous injuries, shape local geomancy, or combat rogue weather gods and water elementals. Where the drought-demon's feet touch the ground devastation and desiccation spread. Wreaking havoc among the local spirit courts and reshaping the terrain. With her hollow pointed limbs she may drink down a raging tempest or rushing river and spin an entire spool of infernal thread.
Apaosha may appear in Creation when a healer nearly dies of self-neglect, slumping over their needy patient with tools still in hand. It is not unknown for such men and women to wake some time later in a nearby chair, their thirst quenched and patient tended to. Gossamer-fine lines holding their ravaged bodies together. Thus in certain parts of Creation it is not uncommon for medics in the field to carry a small spider-esque in their packs. Praying that it will watch over them as they give of themselves to save others.
Panonca, We Are Her Slaves
Wisdom Soul of Winter's Rain
Demon of the Second Circle
She lives her life in chains. Long leads of tainted tumbaga lashed to the cold stone floor of her cell. Each link as thick as a woman's wrist; glistening with an oily false-light. She lives her life in silence. Straps of lunargent laced leather shackling her mouth, stilling her tongue. The silvery tines shifting, locking, as she probes and gnaws. She seems frail, almost fevered, and yet this is a sentence well earned. Unlock her cuffs and loosen her gag and she'll tell you herself. Of how proud she is to have so earned the cowardly ire of her siblings. Of the bleak, beautiful truths they would stop. Listen and she'll speak of so very many horrible, wonderful, things. How you're nothing. How you were hopeless before you began, fallen before you were first defeated. Listen and she'll speak of futility and fallible flesh and the death of secret dreams. All your days stretching ahead, endless and unceasing, your future as empty as your past. Listen and she'll speak of the truth and tell you, whisper to you, of a world of eternal night, a Creation with no sun, no moon, no stars. A world drowned in the perfection of black rain.
So many creatures have been broken by her words. Their pleasures as ash, their once-dear purposes hollow and empty, their indulgent ignorance long since fled. Absent all other meaning they become her students, obsessed with her teachings, obsessed with their own lack of significance. They raise sleek sided watchtowers on the borders of Oramus and build blocky, brutal monasteries in the catacombs between shells. Teaching others in her absence, gathering the strength to liberate her from her current jail. Often these raids fail. Often, but not always.
When they succeed, or when chance and calamity (or worse, sorcerers) conspire to effect her escape, it is a dire crisis for her brothers and sisters. She hides in the antediluvian chaos of her greater self and whispers her tainted, toxic, secrets into the silence between thundershocks. Telling Khvarenah of the emptiness of the world, the emptiness within his souls. Telling him how nothing matters, nothing ever could matter but the future he will bring about. The world he will create through the simple, inevitable, process of his existence. She rarely remains free for long. Too bold and brash to scurry away into the night. When she is found she is again bound and again cast into a new, darker, pit. The deepest dungeons of Salamandra and eldritch sun-vaults of Mazatl have both played host to her in the past and will, in all likelihood, play host to her again.
She cares not. Free or in chains all the world remains a slave to the future she has foreseen.
Notes and Abilities: She appears as a mix between canine and jungle cat. Fur the color of charcoal with spots like spilled ink. Claws so black and sharp they seem to glisten wetly in the half-light. Her ribs press tight against her drawn skin and her gums sunken, baring predator's fangs a few slivers farther. Her yellow eyes burn with the conviction of a zealot yet there is a sickly cast to her body. A tangible sense of illness. About her body she wraps the garb of a wandering monk. On her head she wears a mask and helm fashioned from the flensed, bleached skull of a predatory beast. Every inch lovingly calligraphed in Old Realm, mantras and praise for her greater self.
The skull is actually hers. In the grip of enlightenment she once severed her own head to prove her devotion to her cause. She credits her unnatural regeneration to, as with most things, the rightness of her cause.
Her kin seek to keep her bound or, at least, separated from Winter's Rain. Thus sorcerers primarily summon Panonca to meddle with the politics of Khvarenah's pantheon or to learn from her. She is one of Hell's great martial artists, chained she is only capable of enough movement to teach katas up to the intermediate level. Freed there is no restriction on her teaching save student capability. Her Two Reed school of teachings emphasizes exploiting the frailties innate in all opponents and Panonca herself has studied long to master the art of finding the flaw in all things; augmenting her prodigious skill with this nearly preternatural ability. Panonca may escape Malfeas when great endeavors are rendered obsolete on the cusp of completion. She comes not to aid but to bargain. Grant her the thing that lets you believe the future is full of hope and the world may one day be bright and she will enact whatever mission you desire.
My Daemonomicon Dialogues of Iridescent Sin is finally all up to date too. Aren't I productive.
(next up on "Tenfold's indulgent-ass Doodles": kimberian fetich! maybe. it might be something really dumb instead)
feedback is appreciated really, or even just, like, "please stop"
Apaosha, Duchess of Dust and Ember
Warden Soul of Winter's Rain
Demon of the Second Circle
She is heat and flame and burning, choking, dust. She is cracked lips and cracked earth and the pleas of a thousand thirst-wizened tongues for water, just a cup, just a drop. She is a living drought: the absence of rain, the annihilation of green. Yet she was, from her very inception, a healer. And a healer she remains; nurse and minder to her greater self. When terrible rages wrack the body of Khvarenah and his form twists so dangerously she is there to boil away the clouds and siphon off the rain. When he lapses into lassitude, sullen and withdrawn, she is there to prick him to activity and usher him on. She contains the worst of his bitterness and burns back his spite. She checks his wounded, weeping, heart and forces him to fraternize. To play the part. When he is wounded in the many, many, many skirmishes and clashes between Unquestionable she spins out her stolen moisture and mends his wounds with silvery, fog-like thread. Lesser demons pray to her as an intercessory. Her peers praise her ethic and loyal service.
Why, without her, they say surely Winter's Rain would fall from grace. His cleverness dulled and his schemes reduced to so much snarled yarn. They speak with ignorance. They know nothing of the true battle within his self. Yet Apaosha knows they're still right and she hates them for it.
She is exhausted truth be told. No matter what she does it's never enough. No matter what damage she heals, no matter what slights she soothes, it never lasts. Soon there will be another ragged wound as he pushes his protean form to the limit. Soon there will be another thoughtless comment and he will chew over his secret vendetta and nurture his hatred. What bonds Khvarenah maintains with his cousin Unquestionable always seem strained. What plans he has always seem in critical jeopardy. Should she leave everything would truly and terminally fall to pieces but what can she do if she stays? What meager difference can she make?
At time the Duchess of Dust and Embers entertains fantasies. About how she will bind Sawar and civilize Lilit. About how she will tear down insufferable Seta and discipline roguish Mazatl (for whom she has a particular antipathy). She can't even properly delude herself into believing them possible. Sawar would destroy her and drag her ruined carcass to his domain. Lilit would become perplexed and frustrated and wander off. Whatever humbling plot she devised her uglier sister would endure with good cheer. Whatever punishment she designed Mazatl would only enjoy it (the pervert).
So instead she works. Waiting for some chance, some opportunity, that she has long since despaired of.
Notes and Abilities: The Duchess of Dust and Embers has a curious form. Her face is fashioned of lacquered wood and living chitin, sculpted in imitation of an aging maiden's visage. Framed by the orange and scarlet veils that descend from her peaked, tiered, hat. From her back fans enormous spider-like legs, webbed near the central hub with membranes of leathery skin. The bloated abdomen of a monstrous insect curls from her spine, protruding out of her nun's robes, and heat distortion mantles her shoulders. From the tips of her needle-sharp limbs she draws in moisture. With her spinnerets she crafts it into thread fine enough to close any wound or reattach any limb and with her hidden mandibles she injects something of its essence into the water-sick and water-deprived. She travels astride an ember-flecked dust cloud. Soft-soled feet hanging off the side as she knits.
Sorcerers summon Apaosha to heal grievous injuries, shape local geomancy, or combat rogue weather gods and water elementals. Where the drought-demon's feet touch the ground devastation and desiccation spread. Wreaking havoc among the local spirit courts and reshaping the terrain. With her hollow pointed limbs she may drink down a raging tempest or rushing river and spin an entire spool of infernal thread.
Apaosha may appear in Creation when a healer nearly dies of self-neglect, slumping over their needy patient with tools still in hand. It is not unknown for such men and women to wake some time later in a nearby chair, their thirst quenched and patient tended to. Gossamer-fine lines holding their ravaged bodies together. Thus in certain parts of Creation it is not uncommon for medics in the field to carry a small spider-esque in their packs. Praying that it will watch over them as they give of themselves to save others.
Panonca, We Are Her Slaves
Wisdom Soul of Winter's Rain
Demon of the Second Circle
She lives her life in chains. Long leads of tainted tumbaga lashed to the cold stone floor of her cell. Each link as thick as a woman's wrist; glistening with an oily false-light. She lives her life in silence. Straps of lunargent laced leather shackling her mouth, stilling her tongue. The silvery tines shifting, locking, as she probes and gnaws. She seems frail, almost fevered, and yet this is a sentence well earned. Unlock her cuffs and loosen her gag and she'll tell you herself. Of how proud she is to have so earned the cowardly ire of her siblings. Of the bleak, beautiful truths they would stop. Listen and she'll speak of so very many horrible, wonderful, things. How you're nothing. How you were hopeless before you began, fallen before you were first defeated. Listen and she'll speak of futility and fallible flesh and the death of secret dreams. All your days stretching ahead, endless and unceasing, your future as empty as your past. Listen and she'll speak of the truth and tell you, whisper to you, of a world of eternal night, a Creation with no sun, no moon, no stars. A world drowned in the perfection of black rain.
So many creatures have been broken by her words. Their pleasures as ash, their once-dear purposes hollow and empty, their indulgent ignorance long since fled. Absent all other meaning they become her students, obsessed with her teachings, obsessed with their own lack of significance. They raise sleek sided watchtowers on the borders of Oramus and build blocky, brutal monasteries in the catacombs between shells. Teaching others in her absence, gathering the strength to liberate her from her current jail. Often these raids fail. Often, but not always.
When they succeed, or when chance and calamity (or worse, sorcerers) conspire to effect her escape, it is a dire crisis for her brothers and sisters. She hides in the antediluvian chaos of her greater self and whispers her tainted, toxic, secrets into the silence between thundershocks. Telling Khvarenah of the emptiness of the world, the emptiness within his souls. Telling him how nothing matters, nothing ever could matter but the future he will bring about. The world he will create through the simple, inevitable, process of his existence. She rarely remains free for long. Too bold and brash to scurry away into the night. When she is found she is again bound and again cast into a new, darker, pit. The deepest dungeons of Salamandra and eldritch sun-vaults of Mazatl have both played host to her in the past and will, in all likelihood, play host to her again.
She cares not. Free or in chains all the world remains a slave to the future she has foreseen.
Notes and Abilities: She appears as a mix between canine and jungle cat. Fur the color of charcoal with spots like spilled ink. Claws so black and sharp they seem to glisten wetly in the half-light. Her ribs press tight against her drawn skin and her gums sunken, baring predator's fangs a few slivers farther. Her yellow eyes burn with the conviction of a zealot yet there is a sickly cast to her body. A tangible sense of illness. About her body she wraps the garb of a wandering monk. On her head she wears a mask and helm fashioned from the flensed, bleached skull of a predatory beast. Every inch lovingly calligraphed in Old Realm, mantras and praise for her greater self.
The skull is actually hers. In the grip of enlightenment she once severed her own head to prove her devotion to her cause. She credits her unnatural regeneration to, as with most things, the rightness of her cause.
Her kin seek to keep her bound or, at least, separated from Winter's Rain. Thus sorcerers primarily summon Panonca to meddle with the politics of Khvarenah's pantheon or to learn from her. She is one of Hell's great martial artists, chained she is only capable of enough movement to teach katas up to the intermediate level. Freed there is no restriction on her teaching save student capability. Her Two Reed school of teachings emphasizes exploiting the frailties innate in all opponents and Panonca herself has studied long to master the art of finding the flaw in all things; augmenting her prodigious skill with this nearly preternatural ability. Panonca may escape Malfeas when great endeavors are rendered obsolete on the cusp of completion. She comes not to aid but to bargain. Grant her the thing that lets you believe the future is full of hope and the world may one day be bright and she will enact whatever mission you desire.
My Daemonomicon Dialogues of Iridescent Sin is finally all up to date too. Aren't I productive.
(next up on "Tenfold's indulgent-ass Doodles": kimberian fetich! maybe. it might be something really dumb instead)
Last edited:
and last souls for khvarenah
feedback is appreciated really, or even just, like, "please stop"
Apaosha, Duchess of Dust and Ember
Warden Soul of Winter's Rain
Demon of the Second Circle
She is heat and flame and burning, choking, dust. She is cracked lips and cracked earth and the pleas of a thousand thirst-wizened tongues for water, just a cup, just a drop. She is a living drought: the absence of rain, the annihilation of green. Yet she was, from her very inception, a healer. And a healer she remains; nurse and minder to her greater self. When terrible rages wrack the body of Khvarenah and his form twists so dangerously she is there to boil away the clouds and siphon off the rain. When he lapses into lassitude, sullen and withdrawn, she is there to prick him to activity and usher him on. She contains the worst of his bitterness and burns back his spite. She checks his wounded, weeping, heart and forces him to fraternize. To play the part. When he is wounded in the many, many, many skirmishes and clashes between Unquestionable she spins out her stolen moisture and mends his wounds with silvery, fog-like thread. Lesser demons pray to her as an intercessory. Her peers praise her ethic and loyal service.
Why, without her, they say surely Winter's Rain would fall from grace. His cleverness dulled and his schemes reduced to so much snarled yarn. They speak with ignorance. They know nothing of the true battle within his self. Yet Apaosha knows they're still right and she hates them for it.
She is exhausted truth be told. No matter what she does it's never enough. No matter what damage she heals, no matter what slights she soothes, it never lasts. Soon there will be another ragged wound as he pushes his protean form to the limit. Soon there will be another thoughtless comment and he will chew over his secret vendetta and nurture his hatred. What bonds Khvarenah maintains with his cousin Unquestionable always seem strained. What plans he has always seem in critical jeopardy. Should she leave everything would truly and terminally fall to pieces but what can she do if she stays? What meager difference can she make?
At time the Duchess of Dust and Embers entertains fantasies. About how she will bind Sawar and civilize Lilit. About how she will tear down insufferable Seta and discipline roguish Mazatl (for whom she has a particular antipathy). She can't even properly delude herself into believing them possible. Sawar would destroy her and drag her ruined carcass to his domain. Lilit would become perplexed and frustrated and wander off. Whatever humbling plot she devised her uglier sister would endure with good cheer. Whatever punishment she designed Mazatl would only enjoy it (the pervert).
So instead she works. Waiting for some chance, some opportunity, that she has long since despaired of.
Notes and Abilities: The Duchess of Dust and Embers has a curious form. Her face is fashioned of lacquered wood and living chitin, sculpted in imitation of an aging maiden's visage. Framed by the orange and scarlet veils that descend from her peaked, tiered, hat. From her back fans enormous spider-like legs, webbed near the central hub with membranes of leathery skin. The bloated abdomen of a monstrous insect curls from her spine, protruding out of her nun's robes, and heat distortion mantles her shoulders. From the tips of her needle-sharp limbs she draws in moisture. With her spinnerets she crafts it into thread fine enough to close any wound or reattach any limb and with her hidden mandibles she injects something of its essence into the water-sick and water-deprived. She travels astride an ember-flecked dust cloud. Soft-soled feet hanging off the side as she knits.
Sorcerers summon Apaosha to heal grievous injuries, shape local geomancy, or combat rogue weather gods and water elementals. Where the drought-demon's feet touch the ground devastation and desiccation spread. Wreaking havoc among the local spirit courts and reshaping the terrain. With her hollow pointed limbs she may drink down a raging tempest or rushing river and spin an entire spool of infernal thread.
Apaosha may appear in Creation when a healer nearly dies of self-neglect, slumping over their needy patient with tools still in hand. It is not unknown for such men and women to wake some time later in a nearby chair, their thirst quenched and patient tended to. Gossamer-fine lines holding their ravaged bodies together. Thus in certain parts of Creation it is not uncommon for medics in the field to carry a small spider-esque in their packs. Praying that it will watch over them as they give of themselves to save others.
Panonca, We Are Her Slaves
Wisdom Soul of Winter's Rain
Demon of the Second Circle
She lives her life in chains. Long leads of tainted tumbaga lashed to the cold stone floor of her cell. Each link as thick as a woman's wrist; glistening with an oily false-light. She lives her life in silence. Straps of lunargent laced leather shackling her mouth, stilling her tongue. The silvery tines shifting, locking, as she probes and gnaws. She seems frail, almost fevered, and yet this is a sentence well earned. Unlock her cuffs and loosen her gag and she'll tell you herself. Of how proud she is to have so earned the cowardly ire of her siblings. Of the bleak, beautiful truths they would stop. Listen and she'll speak of so very many horrible, wonderful, things. How you're nothing. How you were hopeless before you began, fallen before you were first defeated. Listen and she'll speak of futility and fallible flesh and the death of secret dreams. All your days stretching ahead, endless and unceasing, your future as empty as your past. Listen and she'll speak of the truth and tell you, whisper to you, of a world of eternal night, a Creation with no sun, no moon, no stars. A world drowned in the perfection of black rain.
So many creatures have been broken by her words. Their pleasures as ash, their once-dear purposes hollow and empty, their indulgent ignorance long since fled. Absent all other meaning they become her students, obsessed with her teachings, obsessed with their own lack of significance. They raise sleek sided watchtowers on the borders of Oramus and build blocky, brutal monasteries in the catacombs between shells. Teaching others in her absence, gathering the strength to liberate her from her current jail. Often these raids fail. Often, but not always.
When they succeed, or when chance and calamity (or worse, sorcerers) conspire to effect her escape, it is a dire crisis for her brothers and sisters. She hides in the antediluvian chaos of her greater self and whispers her tainted, toxic, secrets into the silence between thundershocks. Telling Khvarenah of the emptiness of the world, the emptiness within his souls. Telling him how nothing matters, nothing ever could matter but the future he will bring about. The world he will create through the simple, inevitable, process of his existence. She rarely remains free for long. Too bold and brash to scurry away into the night. When she is found she is again bound and again cast into a new, darker, pit. The deepest dungeons of Salamandra and eldritch sun-vaults of Mazatl have both played host to her in the past and will, in all likelihood, play host to her again.
She cares not. Free or in chains all the world remains a slave to the future she has foreseen.
Notes and Abilities: She appears as a mix between canine and jungle cat. Fur the color of charcoal with spots like spilled ink. Claws so black and sharp they seem to glisten wetly in the half-light. Her ribs press tight against her drawn skin and her gums sunken, baring predator's fangs a few slivers farther. Her yellow eyes burn with the conviction of a zealot yet there is a sickly cast to her body. A tangible sense of illness. About her body she wraps the garb of a wandering monk. On her head she wears a mask and helm fashioned from the flensed, bleached skull of a predatory beast. Every inch lovingly calligraphed in Old Realm, mantras and praise for her greater self.
The skull is actually hers. In the grip of enlightenment she once severed her own head to prove her devotion to her cause. She credits her unnatural regeneration to, as with most things, the rightness of her cause.
Her kin seek to keep her bound or, at least, separated from Winter's Rain. Thus sorcerers primarily summon Panonca to meddle with the politics of Khvarenah's pantheon or to learn from her. She is one of Hell's great martial artists, chained she is only capable of enough movement to teach katas up to the intermediate level. Freed there is no restriction on her teaching save student capability. Her Two Reed school of teachings emphasizes exploiting the frailties innate in all opponents and Panonca herself has studied long to master the art of finding the flaw in all things; augmenting her prodigious skill with this nearly preternatural ability. Panonca may escape Malfeas when great endeavors are rendered obsolete on the cusp of completion. She comes not to aid but to bargain. Grant her the thing that lets you believe the future is full of hope and the world may one day be bright and she will enact whatever mission you desire.
My Daemonomicon Dialogues of Iridescent Sin is finally all up to date too. Aren't I productive.
(next up on "Tenfold's indulgent-ass Doodles": kimberian fetich! maybe. it might be something really dumb instead)
Khvarenah? I assume that's an OC Yozi? Could you link to the rest of the writeup?
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him