Not sure why you're sad, I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be a compliment....... oh.
So.... about the blazing eyes of hell...
Don't we already have blazing eye of hell, at least in mutation and Charm forms?
General Exalted Thread
Don't we already have blazing eye of hell, at least in mutation and Charm forms?
- Location
- Singapore
Oh no. It was a demon I made. Meant to act like iron man repulsors
- Location
- Singapore
Agyu, the blazing eyes of hell
Within hell, dancing lights are seen, floating and bobbing on unseen tides and waves. That is the Agyu. Spheres of Malfean crystal, with flickering green flames within them, glowing with a green light. A single symbol is on them, and the Agyu points these at things they examine, like the pupil of an eye, its flickering inner flame casting strange shadows. They are mostly harmless, flitting about Malfeas's layers in great swarms, avoiding the predators and acids of kimberry, escaping the darkness of the Ebon Dragon. But of course, all in Malfeas earn their keep. And the Agyu earn theirs, by being weapons.
The Agyu were made by an ancient warlord of Hell. Seeing that his demons lacked firepower, he devised the Agyu to act as installable weapons powered by an imitation of Ligier's power. The Agyu can meld themselves into a demons' flesh, their bodies warping into elsewhere so only their runic pupil sticks out from the surface of the demons' body. Only one Agyu can share a host at a time. Any more, and the host begins to suffer from burns, similar to green sun wasting, as the power of the Agyu seeps into them.
Each Agyu contains a great inferno, a pale imitation of the power of the Green Sun. And though relatively weak, it is still a force to be reckoned with. They can release this power in great exhalations, blasting apart fortress walls in a blast of green light, or destroying armies by releasing predatory gouts of green flame, that seek out the closest living thing to set alight and are immune to water. A sorcerer using an Agyu and backed by other spells can singlehandedly take on entire armies. So, too, has the Agyu gained notoriety when used by Yozi cults.
Of course, such power comes at a price. The Agyu can only swivel by a minimal amount when bonded, and so the host must aim for them. And the power of the Agyu is such that it must be expended each day, or else the essence build-up will injure the host.*
*Each day, the host rolls Stamina + Resistance against difficulty 1. Failure leads to a single lethal health level of damage. Each day, the difficulty increases, as does the damage. Until the host either dies, or the Agyu is fired. Then the difficulty and damage is reset.
- Location
- Singapore
Ok. Guys? I'm not so sure on this. So please critique
Szonyeg, the invisible carpets
Progeny of the Great White Hunter
Demon of the First circle
The demon stands in his room, confused. His friends were here several hours ago, but now no longer. He is alone. Searching about with its four eyes, it sees nothing. Yet, it hears it. A faint rustling. A faint shiver. A faint sound, of cloth and movement. Then, his area of vision blurs and darkens. He looks up, eyes wide open in horror. Too late. The Szonyeg has caught him in his grasp, and with a sick crack, broke his bones, and digested him.
The Szonyeg, is invisible to mortal eyes and weak spirits. But if it were to be seen with one with enough clarity of perception, it would appear as a strange, coloured carpet, albeit one that closely mimics the colour of the surface it is on. Others, are not so lucky. The Szonyeg is an ambush predator. Days and days pass, and it lays there, either curled up or laying flat on the floor. Its body is composed of immensely muscular fibers, and it is flat and spread out, like a sheet. One side of the Szonyeg is composed out of a shape and colour-shifting surface, allowing it to perfectly reproduce any image or background. This is the surface exposed to the world, allowing the demon to hide nearly anywhere in Malfeas. The other side contains a multitude of tiny mouths, grasping and tearing hooks, extendable poisonous spines, and pores that can secrete deadly acid. It lays in wait, for days, until some unlucky prey stumbles upon it.
Then, it leaps, and enfolds the prey, muffling its screams with its charms, muscular body grappling, crushing, and squeezing it. Microscopic hooks tearing apart skin and sinew. Spines, injecting it with neurotoxic and spiritoxic venom. Pores, weeping acid, softening the body for consumption. The Szonyeg then wraps itself around its prey to prevent spillage of ichor and viscera, and using shuffling, peristaltic motions, moves to the corner of the room***. Moments later, its friends burst through the doors, hearing a thud. But could only scratch their heads and shake their heads as they beheld an empty room, and close the door behind them, not realizing that if they had simply extended a foot, they would have touched their friends corpse, and the beast that ate him.
Sorcerers summon these monsters for a variety of reasons. Sometimes, to dispose of corpses. Sometimes, to terrorize a mortal fortress or household. Many are the legends within the threshold, that speak of inhabitants of a house that offended a sorcerer disappearing one by one, with strange, inviting whispers drifting through the walls, of screams and thuds which when investigated reveal nothing. Or of a group of travellers that enter a dusty, abandoned house, only to wake up and find one of their compatriots missing. Or, if the sorcerer is particularly brave, he can put the Szonyeg on top of himself, and use it like a cloak, using the shimmering, colour-shifting skin to mask his approach.
Fast charms:
Invisibility - The surface of the Szonyeg shifts to whatever is behind it, making it appear just like it. Mortal eyes are completely deceived, with no chance of detecting it. Those with essence channeling, receive a penalty equivalent to the Szonyeg's essence.
No smell, no sound - The Szonyeg shifts its stealth to other factors of its body... or its wearer. This muffles any sound or smell that could give its position away. The charm is powerful enough to muffle loud screams, the crunch of bones, and the stench of rotting meat.
Concept: Ok, I'm thinking of having the Szonyeg be used as a form of deadly ambush predator, like a horror movie monster. Not truly... sentient. I mean, you can talk to it, and it can understand you. Its also not very interested in much things beyond eating and catching. They crush bodies and pulp bones beneath their muscular masses. And get this, can drink memories. Not anything specific, mind you. They suck at that. But they definitely know enough to know how their friends look like. Which one likes to be alone. How they are related to the victim. So they imitate their newest prey's voice, and call out to their fathers or mothers, calling for help, dragging more people into its maw.
Oi, @Gamerlord
Szonyeg, the invisible carpets
Progeny of the Great White Hunter
Demon of the First circle
The demon stands in his room, confused. His friends were here several hours ago, but now no longer. He is alone. Searching about with its four eyes, it sees nothing. Yet, it hears it. A faint rustling. A faint shiver. A faint sound, of cloth and movement. Then, his area of vision blurs and darkens. He looks up, eyes wide open in horror. Too late. The Szonyeg has caught him in his grasp, and with a sick crack, broke his bones, and digested him.
The Szonyeg, is invisible to mortal eyes and weak spirits. But if it were to be seen with one with enough clarity of perception, it would appear as a strange, coloured carpet, albeit one that closely mimics the colour of the surface it is on. Others, are not so lucky. The Szonyeg is an ambush predator. Days and days pass, and it lays there, either curled up or laying flat on the floor. Its body is composed of immensely muscular fibers, and it is flat and spread out, like a sheet. One side of the Szonyeg is composed out of a shape and colour-shifting surface, allowing it to perfectly reproduce any image or background. This is the surface exposed to the world, allowing the demon to hide nearly anywhere in Malfeas. The other side contains a multitude of tiny mouths, grasping and tearing hooks, extendable poisonous spines, and pores that can secrete deadly acid. It lays in wait, for days, until some unlucky prey stumbles upon it.
Then, it leaps, and enfolds the prey, muffling its screams with its charms, muscular body grappling, crushing, and squeezing it. Microscopic hooks tearing apart skin and sinew. Spines, injecting it with neurotoxic and spiritoxic venom. Pores, weeping acid, softening the body for consumption. The Szonyeg then wraps itself around its prey to prevent spillage of ichor and viscera, and using shuffling, peristaltic motions, moves to the corner of the room***. Moments later, its friends burst through the doors, hearing a thud. But could only scratch their heads and shake their heads as they beheld an empty room, and close the door behind them, not realizing that if they had simply extended a foot, they would have touched their friends corpse, and the beast that ate him.
Sorcerers summon these monsters for a variety of reasons. Sometimes, to dispose of corpses. Sometimes, to terrorize a mortal fortress or household. Many are the legends within the threshold, that speak of inhabitants of a house that offended a sorcerer disappearing one by one, with strange, inviting whispers drifting through the walls, of screams and thuds which when investigated reveal nothing. Or of a group of travellers that enter a dusty, abandoned house, only to wake up and find one of their compatriots missing. Or, if the sorcerer is particularly brave, he can put the Szonyeg on top of himself, and use it like a cloak, using the shimmering, colour-shifting skin to mask his approach.
Attribute:
Strength 5, Stamina 3, Dexterity 5, Intelligence 3, Wits 1, Perception 4, Appearance 0, Charisma 0, Manipulation 1
Abilities:
Archery 0, Thrown 0, Occult 0, Investigation 0 (finding prey +3), Athletics 4 (leaping + 3), Awareness 4 (prey that is alone +3), Bureaucracy 0, Craft 0, Dodge 2 (Outnumbered +3), Integrity 2 (Against pleas of mercy +3), Linguistics 1 (reading +1), Ride 0, Sail 0, Lore 0, Larceny 0 (impersonating someone else +3), Socialize 1 (convincing a person to approach +3), Performance 1 (Screams of help and commotion +3), Medicine 0, Melee 3 (Grappling +3), Stealth 4 (Staying still +3)
Strength 5, Stamina 3, Dexterity 5, Intelligence 3, Wits 1, Perception 4, Appearance 0, Charisma 0, Manipulation 1
Abilities:
Archery 0, Thrown 0, Occult 0, Investigation 0 (finding prey +3), Athletics 4 (leaping + 3), Awareness 4 (prey that is alone +3), Bureaucracy 0, Craft 0, Dodge 2 (Outnumbered +3), Integrity 2 (Against pleas of mercy +3), Linguistics 1 (reading +1), Ride 0, Sail 0, Lore 0, Larceny 0 (impersonating someone else +3), Socialize 1 (convincing a person to approach +3), Performance 1 (Screams of help and commotion +3), Medicine 0, Melee 3 (Grappling +3), Stealth 4 (Staying still +3)
Fast charms:
Invisibility - The surface of the Szonyeg shifts to whatever is behind it, making it appear just like it. Mortal eyes are completely deceived, with no chance of detecting it. Those with essence channeling, receive a penalty equivalent to the Szonyeg's essence.
No smell, no sound - The Szonyeg shifts its stealth to other factors of its body... or its wearer. This muffles any sound or smell that could give its position away. The charm is powerful enough to muffle loud screams, the crunch of bones, and the stench of rotting meat.
Concept: Ok, I'm thinking of having the Szonyeg be used as a form of deadly ambush predator, like a horror movie monster. Not truly... sentient. I mean, you can talk to it, and it can understand you. Its also not very interested in much things beyond eating and catching. They crush bodies and pulp bones beneath their muscular masses. And get this, can drink memories. Not anything specific, mind you. They suck at that. But they definitely know enough to know how their friends look like. Which one likes to be alone. How they are related to the victim. So they imitate their newest prey's voice, and call out to their fathers or mothers, calling for help, dragging more people into its maw.
Oi, @Gamerlord
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- Location
- Pittsburgh, PA
Again, a solid B+ as-is, with my main quibbles being a few points where your grammar/prose could flow a little better. (Also, I finally responded to your PM, so get back to me when you have the time.)
- Location
- Singapore
Oh yeah. This is the inspiration:
Puska, the Thrice-headed centipedes
Progeny of the Living Tower
Demon of the First Circle
The Puska is a beautiful creature. Made out of a silvery, multicoloured, segmented crystal, with jewels studding its length and with three heads. Each head of a Puska contains a single eye, a glowing ruby with an inner fire. The main body itself is scaled, with the ability to climb on or twine on nearly any sort of surface. Many use the Puska as jewellery, as its appearance is beautiful and pleasing to the eye . But that is never its true, main use. Octavian is no social dilettante. The Puska was made in service for war, like many of his progeny. Upon a command, the Puska open their mouths wide. Lightning Essence intermixed with Air Essence, and a glowing, screeching ball of power is launched from its mouth, streaking through the air faster than an arrow and quicker than the mortal eye can track. The ball is composed out of volatile energy, easing causing deadly injuries*, setting wood aflame, and turning stone red-hot and molten if enough were to strike it.** Each head of the Puska spits out a ball one after another, their sensitive red eyes allowing them to calculate complex trajectories, angles, and distances with the ease a man may breathe. *****Their tendency to take turns to fire means that a Puska can vomit out a continuous, non-stop stream of projectiles, allowing them to pin down their victims behind stone battlements and inside trenches, forcing them to move around or thin their numbers by rushing at it.
In the wars of Malfeas, the Puska are often used to kill off mass charges of weak demons, and are draped across frames where they can rest and Attack at any angle. In Creation, it is much the same, with cults and sorcerers using Puska to rob treasuries and storming official buildings.
Some have breeded and mutated the Puska, merging their heads together and enhancing its power with Malfean fungi and Kimberrian Lichen. Their bodies are now short, squat, thick, and nearly immobile. They have a single head, and a single mouth, with three eyes clustered about them. They now vomit a single bolt, sacrificing rate of fire for firepower.**** Their projectile are now even deadlier, transforming solid stone into molten slag or explode amongst a squad of demons, causing horrific, injuries of melting flesh and green sun wasting.
*Kills mortals with ease. Not much use against guys like blood apes, though
**First hits like normal. Subsequent hits get one more dice. Then another. And another. Until it just falls down.
***I need a good drawback and a good limit break
****Bazooka
***** Whatever weapon analogue you're thinking of? They got better range. And are self-aiming.
Puska, the Thrice-headed centipedes
Progeny of the Living Tower
Demon of the First Circle
The Puska is a beautiful creature. Made out of a silvery, multicoloured, segmented crystal, with jewels studding its length and with three heads. Each head of a Puska contains a single eye, a glowing ruby with an inner fire. The main body itself is scaled, with the ability to climb on or twine on nearly any sort of surface. Many use the Puska as jewellery, as its appearance is beautiful and pleasing to the eye . But that is never its true, main use. Octavian is no social dilettante. The Puska was made in service for war, like many of his progeny. Upon a command, the Puska open their mouths wide. Lightning Essence intermixed with Air Essence, and a glowing, screeching ball of power is launched from its mouth, streaking through the air faster than an arrow and quicker than the mortal eye can track. The ball is composed out of volatile energy, easing causing deadly injuries*, setting wood aflame, and turning stone red-hot and molten if enough were to strike it.** Each head of the Puska spits out a ball one after another, their sensitive red eyes allowing them to calculate complex trajectories, angles, and distances with the ease a man may breathe. *****Their tendency to take turns to fire means that a Puska can vomit out a continuous, non-stop stream of projectiles, allowing them to pin down their victims behind stone battlements and inside trenches, forcing them to move around or thin their numbers by rushing at it.
In the wars of Malfeas, the Puska are often used to kill off mass charges of weak demons, and are draped across frames where they can rest and Attack at any angle. In Creation, it is much the same, with cults and sorcerers using Puska to rob treasuries and storming official buildings.
Some have breeded and mutated the Puska, merging their heads together and enhancing its power with Malfean fungi and Kimberrian Lichen. Their bodies are now short, squat, thick, and nearly immobile. They have a single head, and a single mouth, with three eyes clustered about them. They now vomit a single bolt, sacrificing rate of fire for firepower.**** Their projectile are now even deadlier, transforming solid stone into molten slag or explode amongst a squad of demons, causing horrific, injuries of melting flesh and green sun wasting.
*Kills mortals with ease. Not much use against guys like blood apes, though
**First hits like normal. Subsequent hits get one more dice. Then another. And another. Until it just falls down.
***I need a good drawback and a good limit break
****Bazooka
***** Whatever weapon analogue you're thinking of? They got better range. And are self-aiming.
Last edited by a moderator:
- Location
- Singapore
New spells:
Summoning the Riches of the Earth
The sorcerer makes a symbol that is a combination of the Mudra of the Earth and Wealth, and beckons them to come towards him. Within *, all mineral wealth comes within the radius is pulled towards him and attracted. Gold, silver, iron ore, crystal, any kind, popping out of the earth itself. This can only pull out wealth native to the earth. A bar of gold hidden right under his feet will not be summoned, neither would a stash of silver coins. Additionally, this can never summon the magical materials. Alternatively, he can select a certain criteria, and summon them**, expanding the area to *** and having them pop out. This can only be done in the same area once per year.
Regenerating the blessings of Stone
The sorcerer picks up a native stone, and then writes down the sign the gods of heaven write in their forms, when spring begins. And then he buries the stone. For the next day and night, the earth itself rumbles softly. Mining shafts collapse. Soil and dirt expands and multiples itself. Mineral nodes grow. By morning, it is finished. The earth is renewed, and ready to be mined. The spell has two uses:
1. It can regenerate the mineral wealth of any area. If it had been mined before, the place will be restored, as if the mines itself had not been set up, and the old prospectors will find veins in the exact same spot.
2. It can expand the mineral wealth. Where there was once trace veins of silver, now you can find entire blocks of them the size of your forearm. Where there was enough jewels and gems to fill several crates, one can now bring entire cartloads of them. Where one has enough iron to outfit a battalion, one can now outfit and entire army.
Same as before. This can be only done the same area once per year. It is incompatible with Summoning the Riches of the Earth
Gah. One piece. Spiky lady. Acupuncture.
Summoning the Riches of the Earth
The sorcerer makes a symbol that is a combination of the Mudra of the Earth and Wealth, and beckons them to come towards him. Within *, all mineral wealth comes within the radius is pulled towards him and attracted. Gold, silver, iron ore, crystal, any kind, popping out of the earth itself. This can only pull out wealth native to the earth. A bar of gold hidden right under his feet will not be summoned, neither would a stash of silver coins. Additionally, this can never summon the magical materials. Alternatively, he can select a certain criteria, and summon them**, expanding the area to *** and having them pop out. This can only be done in the same area once per year.
Regenerating the blessings of Stone
The sorcerer picks up a native stone, and then writes down the sign the gods of heaven write in their forms, when spring begins. And then he buries the stone. For the next day and night, the earth itself rumbles softly. Mining shafts collapse. Soil and dirt expands and multiples itself. Mineral nodes grow. By morning, it is finished. The earth is renewed, and ready to be mined. The spell has two uses:
1. It can regenerate the mineral wealth of any area. If it had been mined before, the place will be restored, as if the mines itself had not been set up, and the old prospectors will find veins in the exact same spot.
2. It can expand the mineral wealth. Where there was once trace veins of silver, now you can find entire blocks of them the size of your forearm. Where there was enough jewels and gems to fill several crates, one can now bring entire cartloads of them. Where one has enough iron to outfit a battalion, one can now outfit and entire army.
Same as before. This can be only done the same area once per year. It is incompatible with Summoning the Riches of the Earth
Gah. One piece. Spiky lady. Acupuncture.
Last edited by a moderator:
- Location
- Singapore
Merela. Mortal. Courtesan.
She was fighting too. A fierce one, she was. From a fragile little girl, to blossom to a strong-willed, strong hearted young woman. Graduating from crying in his arms, to picking up a stick and whacking boys, to picking up weapons and fighting in the gladiator pits. Last he heard, she was brought away to some strange army or elite army. He had asked about her, but everyone just ignored him. Why would anyone care about a mortal, one who was so frail and so weak, unable to even defeat a single Deva?
No matter.
He could not stop. How could he? A chance to live freely, to live without fear of sudden destruction visited upon fragile mortals like himself, by cruel and uncaring monsters like the Primordials? To let future generations run around Creation, without dominion by Dragon Kings or by cruel Devas. Such a thing is worth dying for. Worth walking for. Worth moving for. And so, he marched, amongst that endless Chaos. Avoiding a pothole made of fear. Dodging a shrub made of fish eyeballs. Gazing momentarily of a waterfall of virgin maiden's tears. Leaping over a chasm composed out of the emptiness of the hearts of mourning widows. Marching.... until he stumbled, so unused to he to dry land, that he nearly fell. He looked up into the sky, and wept, for he saw the sun. Not a false sun, like that shining angler fish or that giant candle held by the wicked fae, that attempted to pour molten wax upon them. The true sun. He could feel it, its rays beating down upon him.
It took less than half an hour for the dragonblooded to arrive. Then the cameras and essence-transmitters and reporters to arrive. By then, his face was plastered onto the the visual screens.
Then he was seen. And recognised.
She was sitting there, on a sofa composed out of white marble. Sipping morning tea made of water from the elemental pole, with leave from a wooden manse that is a thousand year tree on the slopes of Mount Meru. She watched the morning show. Always. There was nothing to do in this hour, and, in her own small way, she could be herself. That was when she saw his face, plastered on the visual screen. A miracle, the announcer said, smiling perfectly. A blessing by the Chosen of the Dragons. A regiment of soldiers, from the Primordial war itself, had been flung outside Creation, and had managed to find its way back. Several thousand years of marching, and they had found her way home. She was not often surprised. Not very often. Rarely. But on that morning, staring at a face that had been missing for millenia, she could only stare in shock. The cup dropped from nerveless fingers, a perfectly created piece of porcelain, the width of a hair, made by a Solar Exalted Craftsmen who lived in Denandsor, who composed it out of Raksha dreams solidified into Jade. The clatter brought attention. Her guards stood at alert, hearing the sound.
They did not come in. Only when she gave the orders, would they enter her sanctum. And if she did not... well, if something could challenge even her, an Elder Dragonblooded would be of no help.
Breaking her routine for the first time in centuries, the previous time being a prank done by a far-too immature night-caste, she stormed out of the room and ordered her flying chariot. She would see her friend herself.
He could only look about himself in stupefication. Walls, composed out of murals and brick and jade. Lights, burning without flame nor smoke. Cold air, from machines above his head. Various colours and devices and trinkets, all about him. His handler was talking to him, soothingly, trying to slowly ease him through life. The world has changed, she said. We won, she said. The great Solar lords, their Lunar partners, the hardworking Sidereals, and the honourable Dragonblooded, have all worked together in order to create paradise on earth. eems convincing. He had never seen such wealth before, not in his home village. Only in the elder Dragon Folk, when he had been allowed to go inside, at least. There were some things that they were hiding, though. For one thing, whenever he pointed at a finger at a poster holding his friend's face, his handler refused to talk about her. He felt frustrated, and it knotted inside of him. What was her name, again?
She leapt out of the chariot, not even bothering to disembark. It was him. Her charms, which let her pick out a face amongst thousands from a hundred miles away, and could see the tracery of veins in a man's pupils in a dark, stormy night, let him recognise him immediately. There was no way that she could ever forget him. Not with her charms. Not with her memories. Not with her memories. All her friends had died, one by one. But this one... this one remained. She landed on the pavement, landing in the midst of courtiers, rabble, and dragonblooded. Those that did not recognise her, leapt back at the chosen who had fallen from the sky. Those that did not, threw themselves down in obesiance, and trembled in fear that they and their cities would be burned as price for their impropriety.
It was not every day that a solar visited. And it was a rare day indeed, that --- of the primordial war exited the Blessed Isle. And it was rare that one would see her like this. Wearing robes of practical bent, instead of the lavish and voluminous robes that she was shown in pictures, posters, holograms, and vid screens across Creation. No longer was she the same; Poised. Calm. Dignified. Genteel. Now, she was all sweating and tense, fists clenched in frustration and impatience. Eyes wide and frustrated, scanning each and every side of the courtyard in seconds. Then she was gone, a flash of golden light, as she ran towards the infirmary where her friend was held.
He sighed, and went off. So the mortals weren't allowed to talk about it. Fine, then. He would find someone else. And someone else, he did. A dragonblooded. Hair streaked with red, and smoke coming off his body. Jade armour, covering his body. A red daiklave. Slouched over, in some kind of cushioned chair. He pointed at the poster with her face, and he made a questioning sound. The dragonblooded just laughed, and sipped some tea he got from nowhere. He sighed. Darn it.
She could hear his voice, now. Right around the corner. A question. "Who is that, on the poster? She seems familiar." he said. She remembered that accent and language. So long ago. So, so, so long ago. She could not help but feel reminiscence. She could almost feel it now. The smell of sweet Aga roots, roasted over a fire pit. Playing amongst the muddy, clayey banks of the river when it flooded. Watching the fireflies, flitting over the long grass. Watching the bears of the wind blow clouds across the sky. Counting the stars. Pointing at the birthmark on his head, and laughing as it resembled a constellation. Him smiling wryly and grumpily at that.
She opened the door, smashing it open with strength that once strangled a primordial. A terrestrial was there, sipping tea, one that had not yet noticed his presence, so engrossed was he in his tea.
He smiled. Oh yes, his friend was here. And she looked as pretty as ever. And even better! He now remembers her name. He pronounced it, greeting her after several thousand years of absence. She greeted back. And then, he had the pleasure of seeing a Dragonblooded spit his tea out in shock.
He was marching, marching, marching along. Alongside the Chosen of the Dragons. Marching to overthrow the creators of the World. To overthrow the ones who had made the gods themselves. Marching to overthrow the creators of the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the mountains, rivers, forests, fires, and winds. Marching to overthrow the creators of himself. But he did not falter. He did not weaken. Body protected by jade plate, and soul protected by amulet, bolstered by the might of the Chosen of the Dragons walking as leader of his battalion, he moved onward. Towards wherever. Mind filled with the thoughts of his old friend.
She was fighting too. A fierce one, she was. From a fragile little girl, to blossom to a strong-willed, strong hearted young woman. Graduating from crying in his arms, to picking up a stick and whacking boys, to picking up weapons and fighting in the gladiator pits. Last he heard, she was brought away to some strange army or elite army. He had asked about her, but everyone just ignored him. Why would anyone care about a mortal, one who was so frail and so weak, unable to even defeat a single Deva?
No matter.
He could not stop. How could he? A chance to live freely, to live without fear of sudden destruction visited upon fragile mortals like himself, by cruel and uncaring monsters like the Primordials? To let future generations run around Creation, without dominion by Dragon Kings or by cruel Devas. Such a thing is worth dying for. Worth walking for. Worth moving for. And so, he marched, amongst that endless Chaos. Avoiding a pothole made of fear. Dodging a shrub made of fish eyeballs. Gazing momentarily of a waterfall of virgin maiden's tears. Leaping over a chasm composed out of the emptiness of the hearts of mourning widows. Marching.... until he stumbled, so unused to he to dry land, that he nearly fell. He looked up into the sky, and wept, for he saw the sun. Not a false sun, like that shining angler fish or that giant candle held by the wicked fae, that attempted to pour molten wax upon them. The true sun. He could feel it, its rays beating down upon him.
It took less than half an hour for the dragonblooded to arrive. Then the cameras and essence-transmitters and reporters to arrive. By then, his face was plastered onto the the visual screens.
Then he was seen. And recognised.
She was sitting there, on a sofa composed out of white marble. Sipping morning tea made of water from the elemental pole, with leave from a wooden manse that is a thousand year tree on the slopes of Mount Meru. She watched the morning show. Always. There was nothing to do in this hour, and, in her own small way, she could be herself. That was when she saw his face, plastered on the visual screen. A miracle, the announcer said, smiling perfectly. A blessing by the Chosen of the Dragons. A regiment of soldiers, from the Primordial war itself, had been flung outside Creation, and had managed to find its way back. Several thousand years of marching, and they had found her way home. She was not often surprised. Not very often. Rarely. But on that morning, staring at a face that had been missing for millenia, she could only stare in shock. The cup dropped from nerveless fingers, a perfectly created piece of porcelain, the width of a hair, made by a Solar Exalted Craftsmen who lived in Denandsor, who composed it out of Raksha dreams solidified into Jade. The clatter brought attention. Her guards stood at alert, hearing the sound.
They did not come in. Only when she gave the orders, would they enter her sanctum. And if she did not... well, if something could challenge even her, an Elder Dragonblooded would be of no help.
Breaking her routine for the first time in centuries, the previous time being a prank done by a far-too immature night-caste, she stormed out of the room and ordered her flying chariot. She would see her friend herself.
He could only look about himself in stupefication. Walls, composed out of murals and brick and jade. Lights, burning without flame nor smoke. Cold air, from machines above his head. Various colours and devices and trinkets, all about him. His handler was talking to him, soothingly, trying to slowly ease him through life. The world has changed, she said. We won, she said. The great Solar lords, their Lunar partners, the hardworking Sidereals, and the honourable Dragonblooded, have all worked together in order to create paradise on earth. eems convincing. He had never seen such wealth before, not in his home village. Only in the elder Dragon Folk, when he had been allowed to go inside, at least. There were some things that they were hiding, though. For one thing, whenever he pointed at a finger at a poster holding his friend's face, his handler refused to talk about her. He felt frustrated, and it knotted inside of him. What was her name, again?
She leapt out of the chariot, not even bothering to disembark. It was him. Her charms, which let her pick out a face amongst thousands from a hundred miles away, and could see the tracery of veins in a man's pupils in a dark, stormy night, let him recognise him immediately. There was no way that she could ever forget him. Not with her charms. Not with her memories. Not with her memories. All her friends had died, one by one. But this one... this one remained. She landed on the pavement, landing in the midst of courtiers, rabble, and dragonblooded. Those that did not recognise her, leapt back at the chosen who had fallen from the sky. Those that did not, threw themselves down in obesiance, and trembled in fear that they and their cities would be burned as price for their impropriety.
It was not every day that a solar visited. And it was a rare day indeed, that --- of the primordial war exited the Blessed Isle. And it was rare that one would see her like this. Wearing robes of practical bent, instead of the lavish and voluminous robes that she was shown in pictures, posters, holograms, and vid screens across Creation. No longer was she the same; Poised. Calm. Dignified. Genteel. Now, she was all sweating and tense, fists clenched in frustration and impatience. Eyes wide and frustrated, scanning each and every side of the courtyard in seconds. Then she was gone, a flash of golden light, as she ran towards the infirmary where her friend was held.
He sighed, and went off. So the mortals weren't allowed to talk about it. Fine, then. He would find someone else. And someone else, he did. A dragonblooded. Hair streaked with red, and smoke coming off his body. Jade armour, covering his body. A red daiklave. Slouched over, in some kind of cushioned chair. He pointed at the poster with her face, and he made a questioning sound. The dragonblooded just laughed, and sipped some tea he got from nowhere. He sighed. Darn it.
She could hear his voice, now. Right around the corner. A question. "Who is that, on the poster? She seems familiar." he said. She remembered that accent and language. So long ago. So, so, so long ago. She could not help but feel reminiscence. She could almost feel it now. The smell of sweet Aga roots, roasted over a fire pit. Playing amongst the muddy, clayey banks of the river when it flooded. Watching the fireflies, flitting over the long grass. Watching the bears of the wind blow clouds across the sky. Counting the stars. Pointing at the birthmark on his head, and laughing as it resembled a constellation. Him smiling wryly and grumpily at that.
She opened the door, smashing it open with strength that once strangled a primordial. A terrestrial was there, sipping tea, one that had not yet noticed his presence, so engrossed was he in his tea.
He smiled. Oh yes, his friend was here. And she looked as pretty as ever. And even better! He now remembers her name. He pronounced it, greeting her after several thousand years of absence. She greeted back. And then, he had the pleasure of seeing a Dragonblooded spit his tea out in shock.
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Information: Please do not Multi-Post. Use the Edit Button instead
Algalon
Herald of the Titans
- Location
- Celestial Planetarium
please do not multi-post. use the edit button instead
@Accelerator, in the future please refrain from multi-posting - meaning the successive posting of multiple post without there being posts from other people.
Use instead the edit button, which can be found at the bottom of any of your post, to insert any new content into your last post.
While there can be situations where multi-posting can be useful - like when posting informative or story-posts that differ significantly in topic - there is no need to make a new post for a single line.
I have merged your posts where applicable.
Use instead the edit button, which can be found at the bottom of any of your post, to insert any new content into your last post.
While there can be situations where multi-posting can be useful - like when posting informative or story-posts that differ significantly in topic - there is no need to make a new post for a single line.
I have merged your posts where applicable.
- Location
- Singapore
mothematics
How wide is the concept of "you"?
- Location
- the bottom of a coffee cup
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Abyssals and Deathlords do not have a practical neutral ground wherein general politics can be acted out, an equivalent to the Infernal Althing. Well, in theory they do, but it's in Stygia, and Stygia basically sucks and doesn't have anything else worth using in it. I think that's pretty lame. So I wrote up something to work a little better, that slots relatively easily into Your Creation. This is written with the assumption of Deathlords as autonomous actors, though, and inert Neverborn, and is best used in that capacity.
With thanks to a few people (you know who you are) for their input, here's the Black Congress. Enjoy.
-
The Black Congress
Deep beneath the chilly Shadowlands of Sijan, the dead play politics for the fate of Creation. The Deathlords, ever in conflict, seek to resolve their troubles. Thus is the Black Congress held annually every Resplendent Air, a week-long assembly and masked plutonian ball where intrigue unfolds, cold hearts are lit with passion, and depraved violence blossoms. To be among the lucky attendant Dead is a great honor.
Sprawling down in dilapidated decay are miles of interconnected ossuaries, tombs, and crypts. In these decrepit puzzles of stone has been hewn a great system centered around an old temple, to deities forgotten, with a vaulted ceiling that heaves over a league-long central chamber. It is here in the ruins called The Conjoinment that the Abyssals follow their lieges to argue, revel, fight and, sometimes, live a little.
History
The tradition of the Black Congress is many ages old. Historically it was a dysfunctional, irregular ocurrence, much like the Deathlords themselves, as liable to erupt into cataclysmic violence as not. The Congress would convene, a conflict would be unresolved, and it would stay empty for two hundred years more. It was into one of these lapses that the Abyssals were released.The onset of the Black Exaltation has seen a resumption of this most noble of the dead's traditions, and it is more robust and effective now than it has been in a long time.
Once, it took place in a different part of the Sijanese catacombs. A thousand years ago, it moved into the mass of buildings now known as the Conjoinment after the previous meeting ground collapsed due to structural instability. Now it sprawls out approximately a mile below the surface of Creation, dotted and pocked with little passages, crevices, rooms and buildings. The true extent of the Conjoinment and its connected ruins are unknown.
The Conjoinment and its passages are maintained by a small, secret branch of the Sijan Mortician's Order, the fanatic Four-Fingered Attendants. They tend to the Abyssals at the Congress as waiters, servants, worshipers and slaves.
Conduct & Rules
The Black Congress is a highly formal event, with strict rules concerning behavior, dress, propriety and honor. Abyssals must dress according to code, in their finest formal wear; anything less would be a debasement. What reflects badly on you reflects badly on your Liege, and at the Congress appearances are everything.
In public you must be polite; uncouth mannerisms are not to be tolerated. Excessive displays of emotion are frowned upon, and outbursts are unacceptable. To be rude is to violate the harmony of the Congress, and that is a dire sin.
Special masks are to be worn at all times when you are outside of your quarters, Deathlords excluded. Discretion is everything at the Black Congress, and it would be improper to give away a face or name, and afford another party unfair advantage. Typically pseudonyms are used during the Black Congress, often based around the qualities of a party's mask.
If violence is to be had between Abyssals--and, given the participants, it often is--a formal duel request must be issued in front of at least a dozen witnessing peers and two Deathlords, and the confrontation must take place below the Conjoinment where it will not disrupt the proceedings. If you break the rules of the Congress, punishment will be severe: your Liege shall be sanctioned by their fellow members of Congress, and you shall surely be punished yourself.
These rules are as much the rigid conservatism of the Deathlords as they are practicality. Were they not strictly enforced, the Black Congress degenerate into squabbling and cease to function whatsoever.
Abyssal Happenings
The Black Congress is a rigidly scheduled event. While their Lieges hold conference attended by select diplomatic aides, attendant Deathknights are left largely to their own devices. They're allowed to commingle, indeed encouraged to do so--that handsome woman soliciting a dance does surely think you dashing and wish the pleasure of your company, as sure as she wishes to indicate that her Liege is initiating diplomatic overtures to yours to all onlookers. Whether or not she actually follows through is a separate concern entirely.
Everything at the Black Congress has an angle behind it, every smile is deployed and every touch is considered. It is a week-long pressure cooker where the game is played every hour of every day. Deathknights are instructed to further their Liege's interests as they socialize, and those that are especially ambitious see the Congress as an opportunity to gain great influence and favor with their Lieges through success. That means that pleasure and business are one in the same-- and oh, there is so much of both.
Abyssals are seldom allowed the pleasures of contact with humans that understand them, undead or not. The Black Congress is a rare opportunity for them to have fun, unwind, fraternize and decompress. Often, explosively. Many must be the strained romance between Deathknights sworn to rival Lieges; care must be taken to not grow too attached to whatever backroom indiscretions may occur.
Courtly Concerns
The Black Congress is rung in by the Gloamtime Gala where all parties sweep into the Conjoinment to commingle and strut. This is the time to flaunt, to introduce your new servants, rendezvous with liaisons, and take the pulse of the event to come.
After the Gloamtime Gala comes the first conference of the Congress, held in the central amphitheatre of the Conjoinment, where every Deathlords assemble to review the week's agenda and present before each other. This process lasts hours, and regularly leaves them in foul spirits afterward. It's widely understood that being the aide to a Deathlord at the first conference is equal parts managing your Liege's temper as it is anything else.
For the rest of the week meetings will proceed according to the agreed upon schedule, typically bunched groups of Deathlords, their Abyssals and whatever other parties that may be involved. These happen in various branching catacombs and caverns - the Conjoinment's main hall is reserved. Other, lesser parties do their work throughout the week as well where it may be done.
At the end of the week comes one final conference, after which there are allowed no more official politics, and then the Morning's Blush Ball, a final celebration before all parties disperse.
With thanks to a few people (you know who you are) for their input, here's the Black Congress. Enjoy.
-
The Black Congress
Deep beneath the chilly Shadowlands of Sijan, the dead play politics for the fate of Creation. The Deathlords, ever in conflict, seek to resolve their troubles. Thus is the Black Congress held annually every Resplendent Air, a week-long assembly and masked plutonian ball where intrigue unfolds, cold hearts are lit with passion, and depraved violence blossoms. To be among the lucky attendant Dead is a great honor.
Sprawling down in dilapidated decay are miles of interconnected ossuaries, tombs, and crypts. In these decrepit puzzles of stone has been hewn a great system centered around an old temple, to deities forgotten, with a vaulted ceiling that heaves over a league-long central chamber. It is here in the ruins called The Conjoinment that the Abyssals follow their lieges to argue, revel, fight and, sometimes, live a little.
History
The tradition of the Black Congress is many ages old. Historically it was a dysfunctional, irregular ocurrence, much like the Deathlords themselves, as liable to erupt into cataclysmic violence as not. The Congress would convene, a conflict would be unresolved, and it would stay empty for two hundred years more. It was into one of these lapses that the Abyssals were released.The onset of the Black Exaltation has seen a resumption of this most noble of the dead's traditions, and it is more robust and effective now than it has been in a long time.
Once, it took place in a different part of the Sijanese catacombs. A thousand years ago, it moved into the mass of buildings now known as the Conjoinment after the previous meeting ground collapsed due to structural instability. Now it sprawls out approximately a mile below the surface of Creation, dotted and pocked with little passages, crevices, rooms and buildings. The true extent of the Conjoinment and its connected ruins are unknown.
The Conjoinment and its passages are maintained by a small, secret branch of the Sijan Mortician's Order, the fanatic Four-Fingered Attendants. They tend to the Abyssals at the Congress as waiters, servants, worshipers and slaves.
Conduct & Rules
The Black Congress is a highly formal event, with strict rules concerning behavior, dress, propriety and honor. Abyssals must dress according to code, in their finest formal wear; anything less would be a debasement. What reflects badly on you reflects badly on your Liege, and at the Congress appearances are everything.
In public you must be polite; uncouth mannerisms are not to be tolerated. Excessive displays of emotion are frowned upon, and outbursts are unacceptable. To be rude is to violate the harmony of the Congress, and that is a dire sin.
Special masks are to be worn at all times when you are outside of your quarters, Deathlords excluded. Discretion is everything at the Black Congress, and it would be improper to give away a face or name, and afford another party unfair advantage. Typically pseudonyms are used during the Black Congress, often based around the qualities of a party's mask.
If violence is to be had between Abyssals--and, given the participants, it often is--a formal duel request must be issued in front of at least a dozen witnessing peers and two Deathlords, and the confrontation must take place below the Conjoinment where it will not disrupt the proceedings. If you break the rules of the Congress, punishment will be severe: your Liege shall be sanctioned by their fellow members of Congress, and you shall surely be punished yourself.
These rules are as much the rigid conservatism of the Deathlords as they are practicality. Were they not strictly enforced, the Black Congress degenerate into squabbling and cease to function whatsoever.
Abyssal Happenings
The Black Congress is a rigidly scheduled event. While their Lieges hold conference attended by select diplomatic aides, attendant Deathknights are left largely to their own devices. They're allowed to commingle, indeed encouraged to do so--that handsome woman soliciting a dance does surely think you dashing and wish the pleasure of your company, as sure as she wishes to indicate that her Liege is initiating diplomatic overtures to yours to all onlookers. Whether or not she actually follows through is a separate concern entirely.
Everything at the Black Congress has an angle behind it, every smile is deployed and every touch is considered. It is a week-long pressure cooker where the game is played every hour of every day. Deathknights are instructed to further their Liege's interests as they socialize, and those that are especially ambitious see the Congress as an opportunity to gain great influence and favor with their Lieges through success. That means that pleasure and business are one in the same-- and oh, there is so much of both.
Abyssals are seldom allowed the pleasures of contact with humans that understand them, undead or not. The Black Congress is a rare opportunity for them to have fun, unwind, fraternize and decompress. Often, explosively. Many must be the strained romance between Deathknights sworn to rival Lieges; care must be taken to not grow too attached to whatever backroom indiscretions may occur.
Courtly Concerns
The Black Congress is rung in by the Gloamtime Gala where all parties sweep into the Conjoinment to commingle and strut. This is the time to flaunt, to introduce your new servants, rendezvous with liaisons, and take the pulse of the event to come.
After the Gloamtime Gala comes the first conference of the Congress, held in the central amphitheatre of the Conjoinment, where every Deathlords assemble to review the week's agenda and present before each other. This process lasts hours, and regularly leaves them in foul spirits afterward. It's widely understood that being the aide to a Deathlord at the first conference is equal parts managing your Liege's temper as it is anything else.
For the rest of the week meetings will proceed according to the agreed upon schedule, typically bunched groups of Deathlords, their Abyssals and whatever other parties that may be involved. These happen in various branching catacombs and caverns - the Conjoinment's main hall is reserved. Other, lesser parties do their work throughout the week as well where it may be done.
At the end of the week comes one final conference, after which there are allowed no more official politics, and then the Morning's Blush Ball, a final celebration before all parties disperse.
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Daniel Estacado
ZA WARUDO
You'd probably love it. Also he wrote songs for Hawkwind(the Warrior At The Edge of Time alum, and the Chronicle of the Black Sword album) and Blue Oyster Cult(Black Blade, Great Sun Jester, Veteran of the Psychic Wars) that are also about his mythos(as he wrote way more than just the Elric Saga. You'll probably have to go to second hand(or used) book stores to get the books, I don't think they are currently in print.
It just occurred to me: Doesn't Gem canonically sit near a Deathlord's HQ?
Falafel, I think, otherwise known as the First and Forsaken Lion? That would seem like the sort of complication that the Iblan shadowland and El-Galabi foreshadow.
Thanks for sharing, anyway.
- Location
- Gladstone, OR
While true, that misses the point of the Lion as an underworld antagonist or ally. He wants to relive his glory days of conquest, not the Neverborn agenda.
@Aleph uses the kerisgame Greater dead material as well, so there is likely an entire pantheon of local dead lords in Gem area.
mothematics
How wide is the concept of "you"?
- Location
- the bottom of a coffee cup
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I don't really like the Lion for that as such, nor do I recall which book lays that out? I read over him a while ago and found him to ultimately be pretty thin. @Winged Knight had an interpretation of him I quite enjoyed which I've been meaning to write up and is essentially that of a petty, honor obsessed general: "he was cheated , betrayed and dishonorably killed - so he wants to show that he never really 'lost' in the first place".
It feels like this could be applied to every Deathlord, though.
That's kinda the point of his canon writeup.
He pissed off his Neverborn badly enough that he got sealed in a suit of armor and exiled to a part of the Underworld with no useful shadowlands of any size, exiling him from ruling Stygia and from invading Creation to carve out an empire there either. I quote:
Article: THE FIRST AND FORSAKENLION
Other Names: Oblivion's General
The being who became known as the First and Forsaken Lion believes he was the first Solar ghost to accept the Neverborn's offer of power. Perhaps because of his eagerness, he quickly proved himself as the most powerful of the Deathlords as well. In life, the Lion received Solar Exaltation not long after the end of the Primordial War, making him one of the oldest sentient beings in all Creation. For all his power, though, the Lion made mistakes that earned him the ire of his Neverborn patron, He Who Holds in Thrall. During the Great Contagion, the Lion's impatience and eagerness for personal glory led him to open the gates of Creation to the Fair Folk, an impetuous action that, ironically, might have saved Creation from extinction by the Dowager's fell disease.
For that mistake and others, He Who Holds in Thrall laid two punishments on his errant servant. First, the Neverborn agonizingly and permanently riveted the Deathlord's soulsteel armor to his body.Second,theLion's master banished him from Stygia and commanded him to build a great fortress-in-exile, the Thousand, far from any useful shadowlands and even farther from the Underworld kingdom the Deathlord sought to rule.
When the Lion was fused into his armor, he lost the power to change his own shape.Accordingly,he always manifests in the same form,a nine-foot-tall tower of a man covered from head to toe in soulsteel superheavy plate armor.His helmet conceals his face, and his armor conceals every inch of his body.The severed heads of six of the Seven Divine Counselors of Stygia hang from his belt, ready to lend their wisdom whenever he commands.
THE LION'S DOMAIN
For all his power and authority, the First and Forsaken Lion has little territory to show for it—by Deathlord standards. His army, the Legion Sanguinary, is the largest military force in the Underworld, if not in all existence, numbering more than 750,000 troops. Except for his deathknights, all his soldiers are dead. Half the Legion followed the Lion into exile to the Thousand, a vast complex of hollowed-out caves and soulsteel ramparts. This immense citadel takes up most of a small mountain range in the Underworld located not far from where Gem stands in Creation. Another 200,000 remain in Stygia. It is the largest single military force in the city, and a not-inconsiderable fraction of the population.While the Lion may not return to Stygia until his Neverborn master permits it, his Abyssal lieutenants ably oversee his interests in the capital. The rest of the Legion Sanguinary is scattered across the Underworld in garrisons conveniently placed to intimidate the Lion's rivals without actually provoking them.
No major shadowlands lie within 1,000 miles of the Thousand—certainly none large enough and convenient enough to accommodate hundreds of thousands of troops with thousands of necromantic warmachines.Accordingly,if the Lion is to gain a foothold in Creation, he must create his own pathway. To that end,the Lion schemes to destroy Gem, whether through plague, civil war, famine, engineering a Fair Folk incursion or some other means. By the Lion's calculations, exterminating one of the South's most populous cities should generate a shadowland slightly smaller than the Font of Mourning—a 100-square-mile shadowland swamp in the Southwest.That should be more than big enough for the Lion's needs. Although he previously judged the Fair Folk as the most efficient weapon to use against Gem, his trusted deathknight Meticulous Owl recently brought to his attention an intriguing new possibility. It seems that a small armyof strange intruders from regions unknown is active in the Font of Mourning. Perhaps these "locust-men" can provide the massacre the First and Forsaken Lion needs.
THE LION'S PANOPLY
The Lion's resources dwarf those of most of his peers. The Legion Sanguinary is several times larger than the army of the Mask of Winters—the only other Deathlord who could seriously challenge the Lion in direct military combat—and even Juggernaut might be no match for an army 750,000 strong.TheLion himself sees the Bodhisattva as his sole rival in terms of military strength, and even that is only because the Lion has no navy and no prospects for getting one soon. Although the Lion thinks himself invincible, he is also a realist. The Legion Sanguinary's maintenance and upkeep requirements are prodigious, and the Lion knows that unless he can somehow exert his forces in Creation, he will soon suffer a shortage of soulsteel and other resources.
Also mentions resource scarcity as a motivator.
Oh, so non-canon Underworld.
Falafel might not even exist here in anything like his canon appearance.
Cool.
MoEP Abyssals pg 67-68.
mothematics
How wide is the concept of "you"?
- Location
- the bottom of a coffee cup
- Pronouns
- She/Her
well i didn't want to say it but
Ah, yeah, I forgot about it because I thought it was pretty lame. I also don't subscribe to the view that the Neverborn should be doing anything at all, which rather puts me at arm's length from a lot of the Deathlords in canon.
e- Like, reading over him in Exalted - The Abyssals, he's even worse there. He just sucks in general.
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- Location
- Gladstone, OR
You're correct about his 2e writeup, but the problem is that they didn't really read the notes from 1e to 2e well enough. In 1e he was supposed to primarily be a deathlord who cares about plotting in the Underworld, for Abyssals and such who play games that focus heavily there. But since he's the Only Deathlord in the South worth mentioning (to say nothing of the five or so wildcards), a lot of later writer started taking him as the Combat Conquest of Creation Deathlord instead.
So your interpretation is totally valid, but if you think about it, 1e-style Lion is a lot better for a game like Sunlit Sands, because Inks or characters in similar situations can make deals with the Lion instead of treating him as a kill-on-sight BBEG.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Frankly no Deathlord (or other character) should be 'kill-on-sight'. That's a failure in design and writing right there.
- Location
- Gladstone, OR
While technically true, the reality is that you should be playing in a Creation that gives you chances even agaisnt 'kill on sight' foes. The Wyld Hunt is not this perfect implacable juggernaugt of social order, after all.
- Pronouns
- she/her
To an extent they need to be, their preferences have the potential to really dominate notions of what their Deathknight servants should be like.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the Hunded Kingdoms...
... well, they kind of suck. And not in an in-character way. They suck in an out-of-character way, because they're meant to be the kind of location that "you can put wherever you want in them", but the problem with that is that creativity isn't actually helped by open boundaries. No, what promotes creativity is limitations, boundaries, and pretty vitally "pre-existing stuff to bounce ideas off of".
I - and some other people - had a bit of a bitching session about how lame they were.
And then I had an idea, based on how a couple of years ago, I wound up doing a thing where I took short prompts and did write-ups based on them. It was a good example of how prompting and the like can help develop things. So I made a suggestion. "Why don't we just write a bunch of one paragraph write-ups of Kingdoms?" I said. "If people want to use them, some basic concepts will make the whole place way more useful. Plus, it might be fun. And earn us likes. Sweet, sweet likes."
Then things started happening. Big things. Ideas things. Flaming rows as we tried to reconcile the fucking cartography because 1e, 2e and 3e don't agree about Hundred Kingdoms stuff and we're trying to be edition agnostic aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Yeah, no, I'm not joking here. There were significant arguments about maps. Which were - largely - resolved, or at least a compromise position was found.
So, this led to this.
#1
Mestelon
In the northern highlands of the Hundred Kingdoms, among the heather and the gorse, lies the walled city of Mestelon. Ancient granite walls wrap ten square miles of ruins and grassy plazas. The city is nearly totally abandoned and the population lives inside the walls. The petty prince rules from her seat atop the tallest gatehouse, dressed in the scavenged armour of bygone eras. The herders and shearers around the city would pay little regard to it, save that Mestelon sits at the head of the River Lon and thus they must come to the prince's domain to sell their skins and fleece to the traders that come upriver every year. Alas, the spring that feeds the Lon is failing, and flows less and less every year. Dark taints are seen in the water, and white worms crawl out at night. Some whisper of an ancient curse; others, a foolish pact by a proud prince with dark forces.
... well, they kind of suck. And not in an in-character way. They suck in an out-of-character way, because they're meant to be the kind of location that "you can put wherever you want in them", but the problem with that is that creativity isn't actually helped by open boundaries. No, what promotes creativity is limitations, boundaries, and pretty vitally "pre-existing stuff to bounce ideas off of".
I - and some other people - had a bit of a bitching session about how lame they were.
And then I had an idea, based on how a couple of years ago, I wound up doing a thing where I took short prompts and did write-ups based on them. It was a good example of how prompting and the like can help develop things. So I made a suggestion. "Why don't we just write a bunch of one paragraph write-ups of Kingdoms?" I said. "If people want to use them, some basic concepts will make the whole place way more useful. Plus, it might be fun. And earn us likes. Sweet, sweet likes."
Then things started happening. Big things. Ideas things. Flaming rows as we tried to reconcile the fucking cartography because 1e, 2e and 3e don't agree about Hundred Kingdoms stuff and we're trying to be edition agnostic aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Yeah, no, I'm not joking here. There were significant arguments about maps. Which were - largely - resolved, or at least a compromise position was found.
So, this led to this.
The Countless Kingdoms Collection
#1
Mestelon
In the northern highlands of the Hundred Kingdoms, among the heather and the gorse, lies the walled city of Mestelon. Ancient granite walls wrap ten square miles of ruins and grassy plazas. The city is nearly totally abandoned and the population lives inside the walls. The petty prince rules from her seat atop the tallest gatehouse, dressed in the scavenged armour of bygone eras. The herders and shearers around the city would pay little regard to it, save that Mestelon sits at the head of the River Lon and thus they must come to the prince's domain to sell their skins and fleece to the traders that come upriver every year. Alas, the spring that feeds the Lon is failing, and flows less and less every year. Dark taints are seen in the water, and white worms crawl out at night. Some whisper of an ancient curse; others, a foolish pact by a proud prince with dark forces.
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
#2
The Empire of Adalbrecht
Witness! Adalbrecht, the Millennium Empire! Adalbrecht, the Sacred State, given to the Sun! It's capital is the storied city of Engelfall: city of shadowed gardens, city of libraries, city of dusk-dappled walls! It's wardens the Cinder Choir, marcher-lords and wolf-cultists, sworn to the eclipse; the starving time when canid gods devour the light. Yet where is the Emperor now? Smoke stains the horizon and the palace is silent. The people flee the core for the periphery and the waters of the Inner Sea run black with ink and soot. All across the borderlands the Choristers muster, yet for what? Some make plans to march on the capital, to salvage what surely must remain or to assert their own primacy. Some make plans to settle old scores, old grudges, and eye the regional fortresses of their fellows with obvious hunger. Lancer of the Howling Land is not the oldest nor the most prominent of his peers, indeed he is young for his position, eager but untested, yet he is perhaps the best situated. His fortress Tenebrous spanning razor-edged mountain valleys and protected by darkling forest, positioned to watch over the old Shogunate highway, his laborers and levies now bolstered by countless refugees heading South. Indecision and insecurity plague him, for the moment he holds an unquestioned advantage, yet, already, he can feel the moment passing, momentum shifting. The weight of history turning against him.
The Empire of Adalbrecht
Witness! Adalbrecht, the Millennium Empire! Adalbrecht, the Sacred State, given to the Sun! It's capital is the storied city of Engelfall: city of shadowed gardens, city of libraries, city of dusk-dappled walls! It's wardens the Cinder Choir, marcher-lords and wolf-cultists, sworn to the eclipse; the starving time when canid gods devour the light. Yet where is the Emperor now? Smoke stains the horizon and the palace is silent. The people flee the core for the periphery and the waters of the Inner Sea run black with ink and soot. All across the borderlands the Choristers muster, yet for what? Some make plans to march on the capital, to salvage what surely must remain or to assert their own primacy. Some make plans to settle old scores, old grudges, and eye the regional fortresses of their fellows with obvious hunger. Lancer of the Howling Land is not the oldest nor the most prominent of his peers, indeed he is young for his position, eager but untested, yet he is perhaps the best situated. His fortress Tenebrous spanning razor-edged mountain valleys and protected by darkling forest, positioned to watch over the old Shogunate highway, his laborers and levies now bolstered by countless refugees heading South. Indecision and insecurity plague him, for the moment he holds an unquestioned advantage, yet, already, he can feel the moment passing, momentum shifting. The weight of history turning against him.
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