I too prefer the watery one, for the simple fact that I voted for this race because I thought it would be cool to experience Warhammer from the perspective of the more aethyric.
Besides, someone has to break the Lady's Monopoly on protective water entities.
We shall be the (demi)spirits hiding in plain sight. All anyone will find are perfectly normal villages never realizing just why there never seem to be any Chaos cults or beastmen herds showing up in the region.
Worked on it through the night, didn't post before I had to go to work, will have it up tonight but I am gonna take the opportunity to beat it with a stick to get it all pretty since there was the break anyway.
[X] A simple farmer, wielding sickle and wearing robe.
They have changed.
Methel most of all. He looks at himself, and she sees the change burned into her, into what he was, into what she could be, into what they are. A robe of silk and fur wraps around their body, at base the verdant and rich green of the jungle they have landed in, and threaded into and across every square inch their mercy to the fallen Daemon Princes is woven into the fabric in rich autumn hues, not their death but the last time they lived. Their very presence seems to be effecting the trees, the flowers, the streams, cooling mist and bright scents and alluring fruits alike seeming to sprout into being as the magic of nurturing flows out of them. The physical changes are clear, as odd as it is to even think of such things, for one their tail and fox ears now seem to be a light shade of green tipped, for another they're now comfortably tall enough to look down on Dererhan never mind the others. They have a sickle passed through their sash now too, a long, hard thing, made of steel the shade of jade.
Speaking of the others, they have changed too. Dererhan, the most touched by mortality, stands taller and prouder now than even he did then, clad in a set of armor of scales each carved with the war, a soft, bronze hue that reflects the gleaming light. He holds a hard spear of oak and—Steel?-- and looks around the forest, his nine tails thrashing about like hell as his senses, heightened and sharpened, tell him everything that lurks in the jungle, the scent of snakes upon the wind. His youthful visage bears handsome scars, the ever rebellious young. A long, straight, bronze shaded blade hangs from his belt.
The power of the Aethyr has burned itself into Ehfeyos, changed and shaped her form until, rather than the bipedal fox she usually appeared as before the War she seems mostly human, except for the incredibly obvious way in which she is not: nine flickering, waving, shimmering glorious tails that sprout from her back, each the color of the winds woven into what is now matter and flesh, whipping and shifting hither and thither with a sedate energy. A staff topped by a shimmering hunk of prismatic stone glows in her hand, arcane writing appearing and disappearing at will.
But Laqurnas has in some sense been the most affected, the most touched, by the magic he works with. A bipedal fox creature of black and gray fur now, his legs long and digitigrade, built thin and agile. He is wrapped in a cloak that weeps shadow, one that folds into his fur; as Menleth looks upon him she sees the image of a man wrapped around the beast, almost like a mist, a shade. A disguise, seen through by his growing puissance? Perhaps. Laqurnas twitches and shifts and moves and he can hardly tell whether that is because of Ulgu or his desire for revenge or both or neither. Even he seems taller now, more, touched as he has been by Aethyr, by the shift. Or perhaps it is simply that the thief misses the greater dexterity of human hands, seemingly denied to him for now.
All of them have been. Taller and stronger
But it is the lesser spirits, now all bound in mortality, that most draws their attention.
For so many now look like the Caregiver, the Merciful, the Forgiving, the many that bear her mark, his touch, their mortality, their morality, in simple robe and dress and sickle, all so like Menleth. They have been touched by his magic, she realizes, affected by his deed. A last touch of the Aethyr upon them, shifting the nature of the lesser spirits until they become refined. The most mortal seeming look now, confused, on their clothing, on staff and sickle and rod; for they never constructed such, and never needed such crude implements as spirits, not when they had magic. The least touched by her, the most savage and untamed of that band, are still marked by calm and rationality in a way none had expected.
But they are all lesser. For there is not enough magic in this place to make them what they once were. Power flickers and moves and twists in them but only sluggishly, restrained, made lesser as the Winds are torn from this world, heading west to lands most of the spirits do not know. Liad, the perennial almost been, now sings without magic, now whispers without wonder, the Winds not coming to his call as they once did. His fur may be bright white, but his shape no longer shifts to please the eye.
Burning Qasarat no longer breathes embers with every single move, his fur fallen away to simply a long, bright head of hair.
Minathpa's golden fur, though still soft and and bright, is now no more than good blonde hair.
They have been lessened by mortality.
They have been reduced.
But at least they are still alive, to be reduced.
And to see the beauty that surrounds them. Vast trees rise up hundreds of feet into the air, and as a cooling rain, a simple mist, falls upon them, brings them relief after running for so long and brings out the beauty of the emerald green leaves, some little as a finger and some big as a pitcher, dotted and studded with flowers that burst from the soil themselves, as vibrant and beautiful as the jewels of the elven folk who once were their friends.
The songs of animals fill the air and they can hear birds and beasts and the trickle of water making a symphony they can along to, mortal spirits reaching out to comfort each other as they try to recover, as they try to consider, as they think and hope. It is a wordless tune that they sing, but they sing it well and none sings the same, but yet it remains a chorus of a song, one that seems to brighten corners choked in darkness and force back the shadows.
They can see the magic, as lessened as it is, flowing around them, a multi-hued breeze carried by their emotions, their spirits, their souls, and each and every one of them shimmers with it like a little gem, but for the four, and most of all Menleth, Menleth who stole mortality, Menleth whose wisdom was mercy, Menleth who tricked the raging, Menleth who defied the Defiant.
Menleth whose doom is still to come.
Actions- 1 Dice allows you to perform one action. You currently have
1-Menleth Dice (Auto Success on Ghyran Tagged Actions)
1-Leader Dice (+20)
Current Actions-
[] Feeding the Hungry: You, spirits of the fox, are mortal now. You have indulged in food and water and wine before; but it is only now that it becomes necessary. Whether foraging or farming or hunting it must be done before you all starve to death in your new forms. (Ghyran) (0/1 Success)
[] Counting the Many: How many of you even managed to escape without dying at the hands of the hound? A count must be held, to determine how many of you lived. For you know not all did. (0/1 Success)
[] Where are You?: You had no particular destination as you made the leap from the Aethyr to the mortal plane. Dererehan has some idea of this world and its existence, but the specifics of this place elude even him. Send him out along with others to map this place and learn, and perhaps to see if there are yet more threats seeking your skulls. (0/1 Success)
[] Control: Spells, yes, spells, that is what the mortals say they do to control the Aethyr, those lucky few who can. While you may have become mortal you are still innately tied to magic; even the least of you could become a mage, a spellcaster, of considerable prowess, while the greatest…you do not know where the limits of the greatest are, for you do not even know who the greatest are. But that is a double edged sword, there must be some reason now held. Someone must teach this new gaggle of spirits, and the young among them, to control themselves. (0/1 Success)
[] Simple Tools: Magic is power and power is magic, but magic is dangerous in this new world in which you live. Ehfeyos speaks of ripping open the walls between worlds and spitting out daemons, explosions, waves of death and fire and worse; and you can die so easily now, so very easily, for all your innate nature means the magic seems to dance to your tune Simple tools, crude but sufficient emulations of that which you have seen mortals use to perform other deeds, seem to you a good method to limit that risk.
But most of all, Menleth is curious. (0/1 Success)
--
Moratorium for twelve hours. Intentionally short update this time to keep from getting bogged down and do some simple mechanical tests.
The power of the Aethyr has burned itself into Ehfeyos, changed and shaped her form until, rather than the bipedal fox she usually appeared as before the War she seems mostly human, except for the incredibly obvious way in which she is not: nine flickering, waving, shimmering glorious tails that sprout from her back, each the color of the winds woven into what is now matter and flesh, whipping and shifting hither and thither with a sedate energy. A staff topped by a shimmering hunk of prismatic stone glows in her hand, arcane writing appearing and disappearing at will.
[] (1 Menleth Dice) Feeding the Hungry: You, spirits of the fox, are mortal now. You have indulged in food and water and wine before; but it is only now that it becomes necessary. Whether foraging or farming or hunting it must be done before you all starve to death in your new forms. (Ghyran) (0/1 Success) [] (1 Leader Dice) Counting the Many: How many of you even managed to escape without dying at the hands of the hound? A count must be held, to determine how many of you lived. For you know not all did. (0/1 Success)
Gotta know what we're working with first before anything else. Sure, we can go hunt for food, but we won't know how much food we should bring back if we don't know how many stomachs need filling. We could bring back too little considering how our people don't really understand the concept of going hungry.
Let's get organized first before anything else, then we can start thinking about feeding ourselves.
Control's probably important too, since we're an entire society of mages and someone somewhere is eventually going to miscast and tear open a portal for daemons to pour through.
We can save that for later, I think? Better to pair it with simple tools so we can provide the people some alternative to the convenience of magic.
[X] Plan: Food and Census
-[X] Feeding the Hungry: You, spirits of the fox, are mortal now. You have indulged in food and water and wine before; but it is only now that it becomes necessary. Whether foraging or farming or hunting it must be done before you all starve to death in your new forms. (Ghyran) (0/1 Success)
--[X] (1 Menleth Dice)
-[X] Counting the Many: How many of you even managed to escape without dying at the hands of the hound? A count must be held, to determine how many of you lived. For you know not all did. (0/1 Success)
--[X] (1 Leader Dice)
