Once upon a time, in a world far, far away, there was a land.
It was a land of heroes, of...
It was a land of heroes, of...
Style, Shadows, and Swagger: A Dark Lady Quest
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I. A Beginning
- Location
- Britain
Once upon a time, in a world far, far away, there was a land.
It was a land of heroes, of princesses, of endless war of good versus evil. Where a country may find itself beset by terror on all ends, until the land and its people cry out for a saviour. Perhaps one who will draw a sword from a stone, or one born the child of a god, newly come into their birthright, and stories will be told of their adventures for centuries to come.
This is not one of those stories.
Our heroine walks a rather... different path.
Your stomach grumbles as you hurriedly toss your personal belongings into your—black, of course—suitcase.
Look, it wasn't your fault that it took you so long to pack, there were just so many other things to do in the day and it kept getting put off. You had your chores, your studying—and Mother wouldn't let you skip out of any of it, despite it being your last week here!
There was the farewell party last night, too. All the minions were invited!
...which, in retrospect, might have been a mistake. You're just glad they were delegated to cleaning up—normally Mother has you fix your own messes, but she said it was a special occasion. Still, you could do without this dang headache, thrumming in time with your heartbeat.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
"Dear, are you all packed? The carriage will be leaving soon!"
Your eyes widen at the sound of your mother's voice and you glance around the room, scanning it for anything that you'll miss too badly. Bookshelves—you've already grabbed everything you want from there, you don't need spellbooks for amateurs any more—there's that headless gnome that Mother had stuffed for your last birthday… no, there's no room for that... there!
"Just a second, Mother!" you call in response, your voice echoing from the stone walls, bare but for a few tapestries and hangings as you clamber onto your bed.
Scrambling, you grab the smooth velvet of your long-term companion, Princess Ebony Dementia, and stuff her on top of the pile of clothing and other doodads that have swallowed your suitcase, her plush limbs swaddled in socks.
A few fruitless shoves makes it clear that mundane force will be useless to you here, as it always is. Grumbling, you stand back and lift your hand up, palm outstretched.
"Gofod!" you utter, your voice resonant with your birthright, the air crackling as the pyre of your soul rings incandescent, power surging through your limbs, channeled by your own will and the word of power that spills from your mouth. You can feel the urge to cackle madly welling up, but you suppress it ruthlessly—if Mother has taught you anything, it's that maddened laughter and monologuing are best saved for when you have an audience.
Your spell enters the world, and the world in turn seeks to reject it, its mechanisms straining against the unnatural influence of your magic. Please, this is your domain—or well, Mother's—and it cannot gainsay you here, even were it a far greater working. With a minor exertion, you contemptuously force your way past reality's resistance, not bothering with any intricacies. You're in a rush, after all.
With your desire enforced, a near-soundless whumpf comes from your baggage, and you turn to admire your work, a smug smile on your face at your triumph over the trivialities known as 'physics' and 'laws of nature' once again.
...it seems your belongings have collapsed into the yawning abyss that your suitcase interior has become. Wincing slightly—some of that stuff was delicate—you peer into the endless darkness, trying to see the bottom.
It winks at you.
Not quite what you intended, but it'll do. Glancing up at the clock, you realise you've got to leave nownownow! Slamming your newly bottomless suitcase closed, you clip it shut and lift it, noting that your spell did at least make the interior weightless.
You don't really want to have to get your Mother's minions to carry it out for you. She'd lecture you for sure.
Ratatattat!
You hurtle across your room, leaping over a chair that had been sent to the floor in your frantic last-minute packing, and yank the door open.
Mother stands on the other side, hand outstretched, mid-knock. An elegantly arched eyebrow examines you, and you do your level best to look like someone who definitely wasn't doing some frantic last-minute packing. A careful step to the side puts you between her and the chair.
You're not quite sure what that looks like, but it's the thought that counts, right?
Right.
"Well, darling," she begins, clearly failing to see through your deception. Chalk one up for the daughter, definitely. "I can see you're all packed. My, my, I remember the day I left to claim my dominion like it was yesterday. I only had a small castle and no minions, but I've come so far..." A misty look drifts over her eyes, and you shift uncomfortably. You've never been particularly sure what to do when she gets like this. Fortunately, she snaps herself out of it quickly enough.
"And now my little girl is all ready to go out there and terrorise the mortals by herself! Oh I'm so proud of you—now, remember that you need to get a chief minion as soon as possible, and don't skimp on them! Just because you've only just come of age doesn't mean you should be letting just any old gremlin or lich be your right hand..."
She rambles on, telling you all sorts of things that you already know Mother let it go already. Nonetheless, you listen for a minute or so, humming affirmatively at appropriate points, before you get bored.
"Mother, we're running out of time," you say, interrupting her monologue about the importance of appropriately looming crags to make your lair in—she blinks, a crack in the facade of her impeccably controlled expression, as if realising just how long she's been talking.
"Oh, of course dear, you need to get going!" She claps her hands together with a crack, light flashing green—
—and you're both suddenly outside, being rained on. You're not quite sure how she manages short-range teleports that don't leave you with awful vertigo, but you'd dearly like to learn. The rain trickles down your face, and a stray droplet gets blown up your nose by a gust of wind.
You sneeze.
Mother mutters something, a glimmer of starlight sparks before your nose—your eyes cross to look at it—and the rain is suddenly no longer touching you.
Damnit Mother, you can do that yourself. It's not a particularly difficult working, even if it might take you a bit more effort.
"Let a mother do these things for her daughter," she says in response, and now you just want her to not read your mind.
Looking around, you take in the familiar surroundings, one last time. It's a dark, stormy night, and Mother's Ominous Dark Lair of Death, Doom and Despair looms in the background, lightning flashes illuminating it for brief moments.
It's a really nice look, honestly; you've not seen pictures of the lair Mother arranged for you, something about it being a surprise, but you're sure you'll have to do some major redecorating to get it to look this menacing. Tearing your eyes away from the fanged maw that makes up the front door, you turn towards the narrow road.
The carriage isn't particularly spectacular by your standards, although you suppose mortals would be impressed.
They're impressed by basically anything, after all.
It's a typical fire-blackened wood affair, skeletal, winged horses nickering and pulling at their reins. There is no apparent driver, but that's just good business on Mother's part. It saves you from having to kill them when you get there—traditions, you know how it is—and they always bill heavily for that.
You pass your suitcase to a slick-skinned gremlin, one of Mother's… dumber minions, to place in the trunk of the carriage. Your less personal belongings—furniture, some sorcerous equipment, a few decorations—have already been loaded. Or at least they should have been.
A hand grasps your arm as you go to check on that, and you are turned to face Mother. She crouches slightly to look you in the eyes, transfixing you with her gaze. The Dark Lady of the Weeping Wastes has devoted her full attention to you and it's a struggle for you to so much as blink beneath its weight—you feel as if you may vanish if she looks away.
"Now dear, do remember to write. I want to hear all about how you're asserting your dominion over the unworthy!"
Yes yes, Mother, you get it. You'll be sure to send letters at appropriate intervals.
After some more farewells and assurances that yes Mother I know how to bind a demon, you clamber into the carriage, slump onto the long, padded seat, and lie there for a moment, collecting yourself.
The carriage begins to move, clattering over crag and ruin with equal ease. It steadily speeds up, and the steeds' heavy wingbeats thrum through you as they take it to the sky, soaring towards your destination.
It's a surprisingly smooth ride, really. But you didn't wake up that long ago, and you don't think you could sleep just yet, excitement thrumming beneath your skin. You're a full-fledged Dark Lady in your own right now, what's not to be excited by!
Free of Mother's tutelage, you have full rein to make the world stand up and take notice of you. You've got so many plots and schemes running through your mind—you can't wait to try them out!
Of course, there's not much you can really do on that front. While Mother arranged for you to move in to a lair that one of her old friends had left… unoccupied, you don't know where it is or what the surroundings are like. Because she refused to tell you.
Damn it, Mother.
She spent long enough pounding the basics of terrorising the mortals and acquiring minions into you for you to know that making plans without acquiring information on the surrounding area is a fool's errand, at best.
With naught else to do, you look around the carriage interior curiously. There's very little of note other than a floor-length mirror on the inside wall, and you peer at it, trying to fix this moment in your memory.
What kind of Dark Lady are you, again?
[ ] You are a fallen angel, a twisted fragment of shining potential. When you speak, the world holds its breath. When you hold your breath, the world dares not speak. The tainted light within you can grant many miracles, which even monsters have cause to fear. Your themes are Awe and Corruption.
[ ] You are a blackened valkyrie, possessed of consummate skill and supernatural power. Your personal might is such that armies cannot stand against you, and only a bare few heroes might last more than a single exchange of blows. Your themes are Death and Glory.
[ ] You are a dark elf, a huntress who tracks her prey under moonlit shadows. You are the beast that stalks humanity's darkest moments, their most primal nightmares made manifest. Your themes are Fear and Savagery.
Introduction
- Location
- Britain
Introduction
Welcome, one and all, to my original quest, Style, Shadows, and Swagger. In this Quest, you'll be controlling a young and up-coming Dark Lady, who you've just met above. You'll be helping her make her name and carve out her territory. More importantly, you'll be doing so with style and panache.
While the protagonist is well, a full-blown Dark Lady and possesses power worthy of the name, she has very different priorities to what one might think. See, the hard part of being a Dark Lady isn't terrorising mortals, or bringing nations to heel.
That's easy.
The difficult part—and the one she'll be judged on by her peers (and her mother)—is doing it with style. While she could almost certainly conquer a small nation with her own personal power alone, that would be gauche.
(You don't want to be gauche, when you're a Dark Lady).
As a result, while our protagonist, along with any allies that may appear, will indeed have a character sheet, the major mechanic is one called Style. Your goal is to accumulate as many points of Style as you can while still successfully achieving your goals. It's a strange thing to note, but one could say that the more Style one has, the greater their reputation (some might call it your narrative weight), and the more that the universe will conform to their will—allowing, perhaps, a million-to-one chance of avoiding death to happen nine times out of ten.
Of course, that's just a rumour.
But then again, those few who do defy the 'traditional' ways tend to meet messy, and worst of all, boring ends.
A Dark Lady must never be boring.
While the protagonist is well, a full-blown Dark Lady and possesses power worthy of the name, she has very different priorities to what one might think. See, the hard part of being a Dark Lady isn't terrorising mortals, or bringing nations to heel.
That's easy.
The difficult part—and the one she'll be judged on by her peers (and her mother)—is doing it with style. While she could almost certainly conquer a small nation with her own personal power alone, that would be gauche.
(You don't want to be gauche, when you're a Dark Lady).
As a result, while our protagonist, along with any allies that may appear, will indeed have a character sheet, the major mechanic is one called Style. Your goal is to accumulate as many points of Style as you can while still successfully achieving your goals. It's a strange thing to note, but one could say that the more Style one has, the greater their reputation (some might call it your narrative weight), and the more that the universe will conform to their will—allowing, perhaps, a million-to-one chance of avoiding death to happen nine times out of ten.
Of course, that's just a rumour.
But then again, those few who do defy the 'traditional' ways tend to meet messy, and worst of all, boring ends.
A Dark Lady must never be boring.
Mechanics
- Location
- Britain
Mechanics
This is a purely narrative quest, meaning that there are no dice rolls. There might be one for events completely outside your control at times, but ultimately, there are no hard-and-fast mechanics involved.
On the other hand, there are still stats, because otherwise it's just no fun. These stats provide a loose guideline for me to work with to get an idea of a character's abilities and areas of relative strength and weakness.
Unfortunately, the protagonist is already starting the quest as well, a Dark Lady. They're already incredibly powerful, and they only really gain marginal benefits from training. While they have a character sheet, they are not able to get XP. Instead, if narratively appropriate moments occur—for example, outwitting or defeating a demigod—there will simply be a vote on what skills rank up.
That's not to say there's no XP at all, however. XP will be offered to spend here, but it is a representation of the time investment that the protagonist spends personally attending to such in her downtime. Major Allies and your Lair are the two main receptacles of this. Should any fanworks appear, that is what they will be rewarded with.
Now with no further ado, let me reveal the list of skill ranks, which are definitely invented entirely by me and certainly not stolen from Maugan Ra. Note that, unlike Maugan Ra's Of Noble Purpose, there is by no means a standardised list of skills. Different beings have skills unique to them or their kind, and there are hundreds of disciplines scattered across the land that someone might have a grasp of.
On the other hand, there are still stats, because otherwise it's just no fun. These stats provide a loose guideline for me to work with to get an idea of a character's abilities and areas of relative strength and weakness.
Unfortunately, the protagonist is already starting the quest as well, a Dark Lady. They're already incredibly powerful, and they only really gain marginal benefits from training. While they have a character sheet, they are not able to get XP. Instead, if narratively appropriate moments occur—for example, outwitting or defeating a demigod—there will simply be a vote on what skills rank up.
That's not to say there's no XP at all, however. XP will be offered to spend here, but it is a representation of the time investment that the protagonist spends personally attending to such in her downtime. Major Allies and your Lair are the two main receptacles of this. Should any fanworks appear, that is what they will be rewarded with.
Now with no further ado, let me reveal the list of skill ranks, which are definitely invented entirely by me and certainly not stolen from Maugan Ra. Note that, unlike Maugan Ra's Of Noble Purpose, there is by no means a standardised list of skills. Different beings have skills unique to them or their kind, and there are hundreds of disciplines scattered across the land that someone might have a grasp of.
- Novice (N/A) - You have begun to practice this skill and have some basic theoretical knowledge of how it functions, but cannot yet reliably employ it under pressure.
- Student (100xp) - You have received some training in this skill, and as a result can call upon it in times of need.
- Competent (200xp) - Your training is complete, and you can now reliably employ this skill under pressure to solid effect; absent external pressure, you no longer make mistakes when wielding your abilities.
- Adept (400xp) - The basic understanding imparted by training has been reinforced by practical experience and personal specialisation, allowing you to use the skill absent error even under pressure or outright attack.
- Distinguished (800xp) - Your technique has been refined to a point beyond simple training, including the personalised moves and individual techniques that are the markings of a true veteran. No two people at this rank will practice a skill in quite the same way, and people will begin to specialise as such.
- Expert (1600xp) - Your ability in this skill is noteworthy and even heroes and other powerful beings will respect the talent you have in this arena.
- Elite (2400xp) - You are beginning to hit the upper levels of what is physically possible for a practitioner of your chosen skill, reaching the limits of what mere training and inherent talent can hope to achieve.
- Master (3600xp) - If it can be done, you have done it; if you cannot do it, it cannot be done. You are the very definition of this skill, and the meeting of two masters in battle is something more akin to a natural disaster in motion than anything resembling an actual fight.
- Champion (5400xp) - The things you can do defy belief and shatter any kind of expectation. You are the unattainable ideal against which the prodigies of tomorrow will measure themselves.
- Legendary (N/A) - You are, quite simply, the best. There is by definition only one being of this level of achievement for any given skill; attaining the rank for yourself requires, at a minimum, tracking that person down and besting them in fair contest.
There are also Techniques. These are a one-time expenditure of 300 XP that adds a neat trick to a character's arsenal. They are associated with a particular skill or previous Technique, and represent a signature talent or ability, honed beyond normal means. While I'll be writing some up for appropriate Major Allies, you are also free to come up with your own should you wish to, subject to my approval.
Preview: The Beginning.
- Location
- Britain
So, I'm unsure if I'll be able to keep to this, but I'll take a stab at this preview thing, now that there's fifty votes hit. I'm not actually previewing the next update, though, rather I'm revealing a Technique that would be on each PC's character sheet.
Disclaimer: Subject to wording change.
Article: And Death Shall Have No Dominion
Though they go mad, they shall be sane. Though they sink through the sea, they shall rise again.
You are a valkyrie, if one who has strayed from the orthodox path. Your divine mandate may not be what it once was, but it allows for this. True heroes who fall to your blade are not lost to the mists of time, not for as long as you still live.
For you will remember them, and they you.
You blow your horn, a mournful note ringing across realms to snatch those heroes from death's grip, for a time. With forms wrought of mist and shadow, they will stand before you to test any would-be challenger's mettle.
You pray that one is found worthy.
Cattle die, kinsmen die. One day even you yourself will die. One thing now that never dies is the fame of a dead man's deeds.
Article: The World Wails
You are a Fallen Angel, a fragment of reality itself made manifest on this mortal plane. With but the barest word, the lie known as 'truth' recoils from your presence. What, then, if you sang a profane chorus?
You sing to the world, a wicked mimicry of a 'true' angel's hymn, and it shudders and heaves in horror. For as long as your song is maintained, reality around you is broken. What is true can become false, what exists can become otherwise and even time itself can by wrought asunder by the cataclysmic cacophony of your chorus.
But beware, child. If you treat reality as a toy...
It might just fail you when you need it the most.
Article: Cuts Deeper Than Swords
When you walk amongst a humanity made soft by wrought stone and tailored iron—you wonder, do they not think of whence they came—they shudder as they feel death's chill touch brush the back of their neck. They tell tales, speaking to one another that a nightmare walks among them, watching their weaknesses and feeding off their fear.
You are a dream made manifest. You are the shadow that lurks in the hearts of men. If only they knew how literal they were, when they told their tall tales behind their stone walls and shining lights that they think protect them from the predators that stalk the night.
You do indeed feed off their fear. You can smell, taste and reach out and grasp it in your hand, holding its fat thread between your fingers. Plucking the strings of a man's terror will play to you the song of his soul, and from that you will learn much.
In the darkest whispers of night, you can even breach the boundary between dreams and reality, stepping into a man's nightmares on silent tread. With spirit-wrought limbs, you can hold the pyre of his soul in your hands; with ferocity-forged fangs, you can devour his fear in its entirety.
And what is a human without fear?
Nothing.
Disclaimer: Subject to wording change.
II. Arrival
- Location
- Britain
II. Arrival
With a rattle and a jerk, the carriage comes to a sudden halt and you start awake. A rustling sigh blows through the window and the door slides open with a clatter. Yawning, you stand up and peer outside. Sunlight greets you and you wince, eyes watering from the bright midday glare.
Stepping outside—careful to keep your wings close to avoid having them catch on the doorframe— your boots crunch on gravel, contrasting with the joyful chirping of the birds that echoes around the winding path before you, which leads up to a wrought-iron, spiked gate with thick rose-bushes acting in place of any form of mundane fence.
You take a deep breath, cringing slightly. Light is thick on the air in this realm, you can tell; the scorching-burn-purity strong and clear. It reminds you of the sun in the sky above, of weddings and worship, of honour and obligation.
It makes you feel quite ill, honestly.
The clatter of wheels behind you alerts you to the carriage's departure… and you've missed a chance to figure out how the Dark Travelling Service delivers your belongings. Again.
Sometimes they do have a valet do it, but on a number of occasions you've ridden along in a seemingly unattended carriage, and your luggage has just… been there, at your destination.
Countless childhood attempts to figure it out precisely how they did it bore no fruit. You suspect Mother is assisting them in hiding it from you, it's the sort of thing she'd find funny.
Glaring upwards, you squint at the sun that is so cheerfully shining down on you. This just won't do, not at all. Before you do anything else, you're going to have to do something about that.
You inhale, soft and slow, feeling your lungs expand and press against the inside of your chest. You can taste the dust on the air, a kaleidoscope of tiny fragments of the universe passing through your lips and into your body, saturating you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
Using that to centre yourself, you take those manifold quantae of reality within you and twist, releasing just slightly the iron grip you have over yourself. The light of your soul echoes from within you in a flutter of black-feathered wings, suffusing the particles of this base plane with the unholy sanctity of your selfhood, and you can feel the atmosphere shudder slightly at your touch.
Sorcery is, at heart, the art of persuading the world to do your bidding. Whether that be through gently manipulating the mechanisms of reality with incantations and rituals, by deceiving the cosmos into correcting what it thinks is an error, or by dint of simply subjugating it to your will with sheer force, it all comes down to the same thing.
Power, and the will to use it.
Sympathetic resonance is one of the most ubiquitous tools in a sorceress's arsenal, even if most can't create it quite so trivially as you can. By connecting the quiddities of the world you took in with your breath to the corrupted light of your existence, you can simply inform them of your desire and command it to be reflected in the greater landscape.
You speak a word of power.
The sky obeys.
The snap of ice forming on the ground greets your ears as that damnable chirping begins to quieten, the sunlight fading before the onslaught of dark clouds. Mist manifests itself around you, shrouding the way forward in a smoky veil.
And you see that it is good.
Grinning, you trot down the pathway, brimming with success at your endeavour and admiring the way the fog winds around your body with clammy fingers of shadow. It's not much, in the grand scheme of things, but a working on this scale performed so quickly would leave most magical experts from across the realms sputtering in awe.
As well they should.
Your boots crunch on the frozen-over tiles that mark the transition to the grounds proper. You grasp the icy metal of the gate's handle and twist, opening it with the scream of iron that has not been oiled in a long time. You nod appreciatively—it's the small touches that matter.
Taking your first steps into your new domain, you look upwards, at the place that will be the centre of your power for the foreseeable future. Shattered steeples and broken windows greet you, profane symbols lining the roof's overhang by the dozen.
It's an old, twisted church, with the traditional icons destroyed and the ceremonial barriers disrupted, large parts of it in ruins, the entrance marked by an enormous set of double doors, stained with blood and with one of them broken and hanging off its hinges.
It's gorgeous. You love it already, even if it does need fixing up.
And that's without going into what is, effectively, your front garden. An old, musty graveyard, overrun with weeds and mould; you can taste the death on the air. Untended graves from a time long past, doubtlessly filled with corpses whose previous owners are most disturbed by the lack of care?
Oh Mother, she shouldn't have.
You reach the doors, open the functional one wide with a light push while half-consciously batting the wreckage of the other out of your way with a wing, and take your first look at the interior.
It's going to take a lot of work, you can tell. The tiled floor has been shredded by… something, and there is dust, ichor and other detritus scattered all over the place. The great arches where stained-glass windows once stood are empty, with no sign of being recoverable. That might be for the best, though; you'd always wanted to try your hand at making some.
Taking a step further in, the scent of the air makes you wrinkle your nose. What is that stench–
Clatter, swoosh.
Eyes widening in shock, you dart sideways--a casual tap of your foot sends you gracefully through the air where your wings need not beat to keep you aloft, barely avoiding a something that cleaves through the space that your head was previously inhabiting. A misshapen form falls to the floor where you once stood with a mighty crash. Grimacing at the rancid smell intensifying, you see a hair slowly drifting to the ground, and reach up. It seems not all of you cleanly avoided the blow.
Your grimace transitions into an expression of true annoyance.
It is a spidery, thin-legged creature, with six angular limbs that taper into blades of bone and mucus-slick grey flesh marred with swollen lumps and bloody orifices. A mortwight—an undead spirit born of unclean graves.
This does neatly explain why the locals had avoided this area and where the blood came from, you muse to yourself. A mortwight is a fearsome creature to them; you're not sure if mortal weaponry can even kill the beasts.
Unfortunately for it, you were never mortal.
It hisses and shrieks, an unearthly racket that would undoubtedly shatter a human's eardrums, or else send them reeling in a fit of madness. To you, it's just loud and irritating. With a flick of your wrist, you forge your imagination into a razor-sharp filament of twisted light, hanging just above your right wing.
The mortwight spits, howls and heaves in displeasure. It can sense something of what you're doing then. Interesting. A shame that they're really more trouble than they're worth to bind to your service. Gathering its six legs beneath it, it hurls itself through the air at you, a seething avalanche of muscle, bone and blades single-mindedly devoted to ending all that you are.
With another beat of blackened wings, you twist in the air and slam the snarling deluge of violence aside with an arm that would put an iron bar's durability to shame. It crashes into and then through a wall—the thought of the repair makes you wince.
Time to finish this, then. You raise a hand up high above your head, and speak a word of power, the world itself seeming to grind to a halt, moaning and groaning in displeasure. You ignore it with practiced disdain.
Corrupted light spills from the vessel of your soul in a rush, and the shining spear hanging above you gains a twin. And then another, and another, until thirty gleaming instruments of murder spill tainted light over the ruined church foyer.
The mortwight has gotten to its feet, swaying slightly, as if punch drunk. It howls once more, the air vibrating to the point that you can feel it physically rattle your teeth. Enough. You bring your arm down, and thrice-ten lances respond to its call in the only language that it can understand.
It makes a valiant effort to avoid the barrage, but it is spit upon a dozen manifestations of your will, pitifully scrabbling at the ground, its struggles finding no purchase before your wrath. You clench your open hand into a fist and the undead creature erupts into an ugly, emerald blaze, immolated by the fire of your soul.
It does not go quietly, an unholy wail accompanying the scent of cooked flesh that fills the air. You wait, watching it burn until it screams its last.
Dropping back down to the ground, you sigh. Well, that was an entertaining diversion, but now you have to face your true adversary of the day.
Unpacking.
Several hours later finds you in a study that you have painstakingly redecorated with your own ornaments and furniture. The walls have been recoloured with… mostly illusion, honestly. Painting with sorcery is not something you've had great success with before. You'll wait until you've acquired minions to do it for you.
You also need to look into summoning something to remodel the place. While you've fixed up the majority of the damage with sorcery, you have far better things to do than play interior decorator.
For example, what you're doing right now. You lean back into your favourite chair, a kick of a leg sending it into a spin.
Wheee.
Ahem. Back to business—you've cast some divination spells, looked around the area, summoned up some spirits to tell you about this place… the usual, right?
The land you currently reside in—the Kingdom of Albion—is a highly religious place. While it has a monarch who theoretically reigns in their capital city of Londinium, in practice it is the Church who rule the country. Any who attempt to contest them are swiftly subdued by their military arm, the Crusaders.
An order with thousands of swords that they can call to action, divine magic that they can invoke at need, and numerous so-called heroes sworn to their banner--they make an intimidating force, all-in-all.
It's a good thing you were never intending to face them head-on, really. Oh, you might very well manage to carve out your territory doing so directly, but it would lack… finesse.
What's the point of being a Dark Lady who has spent years mastering darker sorcery if you can't do things in style, after all?
Sighing, you toy with a stylus, spinning it between your fingers. Countless half-formed plots and schemes run through your mind, from the banal to the overly ambitious. Things to look forward to—you make a mental note to lay your hands on a set of the local scriptures as soon as you can, the possibilities there make your mouth water.
It's a wonder what you can do with a few terrified mortals and a few more temptations laid in the path of those in power, really.
But first, you have something you need to do. Despite appearances to the contrary, you didn't completely ignore Mother's rants on the need for a strong right hand to govern your dominion.
Frowning, you examine the magic circle in front of you. While you wish that you still had access to your mother's ritual room, beggars can't be choosers. A lonely underground crypt that you hastily cleared out while unpacking will have to do. Shelves line the walls, mostly empty save for a few texts that you'd brought with you, along with the occasional oddity.
And the stuffed crocodile, but that's just there for the atmosphere, really.
A single circle, adorned with sigils written in mercury—the tainted silver—glows with arcane light before you, each letter a blasphemy against all that is sane, each pulse of energy thrumming through the room a soundless scream of protest.
Even now, Mother's consistent repetitions of how important your first lieutenant is are sounding in your skull. You can't afford to screw this up.
A gloved fist stretches out before you as you stoke the pyre of your soul, ushering forth power, streams of starlight spiraling out from your body and into the summoning circle. You incant the spell smoothly, liquid syllables pouring over your tongue like poisoned honey.
"Rwy'n gorchymyn i chi, chwi sy'n gwrando fy alwad..."
There are any number of servants you could summon here, spirits great and small, beasts that stalk the night and monsters that haunt the day. Unfortunately, there's a slight hitch there. To summon a specific creature of any meaningful strength or intellect, you require their name.
The few names you have earnt, stolen or won are not enough for this—the odd sprite or minor spirit of nature. Instead, you are sending out a more… general call. While the summoner's creed of 'Thou shalt not call up what thou canst not put down' still applies… there is very little that you could not put down if it becomes necessary, here in the heart of your domain, new though it may be.
Instead, the entity that answers your call will be one of potential, one with power and—most importantly—the willingness to serve. You are a Fallen Angel, and there are a great many beings that will jump at the opportunity to learn at your feet.
Your voice rises in volume to ring out in a declaration of intent, the sound echoing strangely off the stone walls as you finish the spell.
"Ymddangos ger fy mron, ymgnawdu tywyllwch!"
Star-spun sunfire flashes, bright enough to burn out a mortal's sight, and you gaze upon the guardian you have summoned. Your smile gleams, bright with anticipation, ivory razors reflecting the fading light, and you speak.
"Greetings. I am Gabriel."
What have you summoned?
[ ] A trickster, clad in smoke and shadow. A sly wink, a subtle whisper and sourceless laughter in the night; she wears deception like a dress and weaves illusions as easily as breathing.
[ ] A champion, in armour that cloaks her identity in fire and shadow. A shout, the ringing clamour of blades embattled, the smell of blood on the air; she leaves smouldering ash in her wake and crushes would-be heroes beneath her heel.
[ ] A scholar, eyes gleaming with hunger and enigmatic desire. A secret that is never to be told, a riddle that is never to be solved, a mystery that is never to be unraveled; she seeks all these and more.
A/N: Character sheet will... be up at some point either later tonight or after I've slept, I opted to write the update first. Lair mechanics will come either next update or the one after, I think. We'll see.
With a rattle and a jerk, the carriage comes to a sudden halt and you start awake. A rustling sigh blows through the window and the door slides open with a clatter. Yawning, you stand up and peer outside. Sunlight greets you and you wince, eyes watering from the bright midday glare.
Stepping outside—careful to keep your wings close to avoid having them catch on the doorframe— your boots crunch on gravel, contrasting with the joyful chirping of the birds that echoes around the winding path before you, which leads up to a wrought-iron, spiked gate with thick rose-bushes acting in place of any form of mundane fence.
You take a deep breath, cringing slightly. Light is thick on the air in this realm, you can tell; the scorching-burn-purity strong and clear. It reminds you of the sun in the sky above, of weddings and worship, of honour and obligation.
It makes you feel quite ill, honestly.
The clatter of wheels behind you alerts you to the carriage's departure… and you've missed a chance to figure out how the Dark Travelling Service delivers your belongings. Again.
Sometimes they do have a valet do it, but on a number of occasions you've ridden along in a seemingly unattended carriage, and your luggage has just… been there, at your destination.
Countless childhood attempts to figure it out precisely how they did it bore no fruit. You suspect Mother is assisting them in hiding it from you, it's the sort of thing she'd find funny.
Glaring upwards, you squint at the sun that is so cheerfully shining down on you. This just won't do, not at all. Before you do anything else, you're going to have to do something about that.
You inhale, soft and slow, feeling your lungs expand and press against the inside of your chest. You can taste the dust on the air, a kaleidoscope of tiny fragments of the universe passing through your lips and into your body, saturating you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.
Using that to centre yourself, you take those manifold quantae of reality within you and twist, releasing just slightly the iron grip you have over yourself. The light of your soul echoes from within you in a flutter of black-feathered wings, suffusing the particles of this base plane with the unholy sanctity of your selfhood, and you can feel the atmosphere shudder slightly at your touch.
Sorcery is, at heart, the art of persuading the world to do your bidding. Whether that be through gently manipulating the mechanisms of reality with incantations and rituals, by deceiving the cosmos into correcting what it thinks is an error, or by dint of simply subjugating it to your will with sheer force, it all comes down to the same thing.
Power, and the will to use it.
Sympathetic resonance is one of the most ubiquitous tools in a sorceress's arsenal, even if most can't create it quite so trivially as you can. By connecting the quiddities of the world you took in with your breath to the corrupted light of your existence, you can simply inform them of your desire and command it to be reflected in the greater landscape.
You speak a word of power.
The sky obeys.
The snap of ice forming on the ground greets your ears as that damnable chirping begins to quieten, the sunlight fading before the onslaught of dark clouds. Mist manifests itself around you, shrouding the way forward in a smoky veil.
And you see that it is good.
Grinning, you trot down the pathway, brimming with success at your endeavour and admiring the way the fog winds around your body with clammy fingers of shadow. It's not much, in the grand scheme of things, but a working on this scale performed so quickly would leave most magical experts from across the realms sputtering in awe.
As well they should.
Your boots crunch on the frozen-over tiles that mark the transition to the grounds proper. You grasp the icy metal of the gate's handle and twist, opening it with the scream of iron that has not been oiled in a long time. You nod appreciatively—it's the small touches that matter.
Taking your first steps into your new domain, you look upwards, at the place that will be the centre of your power for the foreseeable future. Shattered steeples and broken windows greet you, profane symbols lining the roof's overhang by the dozen.
It's an old, twisted church, with the traditional icons destroyed and the ceremonial barriers disrupted, large parts of it in ruins, the entrance marked by an enormous set of double doors, stained with blood and with one of them broken and hanging off its hinges.
It's gorgeous. You love it already, even if it does need fixing up.
And that's without going into what is, effectively, your front garden. An old, musty graveyard, overrun with weeds and mould; you can taste the death on the air. Untended graves from a time long past, doubtlessly filled with corpses whose previous owners are most disturbed by the lack of care?
Oh Mother, she shouldn't have.
You reach the doors, open the functional one wide with a light push while half-consciously batting the wreckage of the other out of your way with a wing, and take your first look at the interior.
It's going to take a lot of work, you can tell. The tiled floor has been shredded by… something, and there is dust, ichor and other detritus scattered all over the place. The great arches where stained-glass windows once stood are empty, with no sign of being recoverable. That might be for the best, though; you'd always wanted to try your hand at making some.
Taking a step further in, the scent of the air makes you wrinkle your nose. What is that stench–
Clatter, swoosh.
Eyes widening in shock, you dart sideways--a casual tap of your foot sends you gracefully through the air where your wings need not beat to keep you aloft, barely avoiding a something that cleaves through the space that your head was previously inhabiting. A misshapen form falls to the floor where you once stood with a mighty crash. Grimacing at the rancid smell intensifying, you see a hair slowly drifting to the ground, and reach up. It seems not all of you cleanly avoided the blow.
Your grimace transitions into an expression of true annoyance.
It is a spidery, thin-legged creature, with six angular limbs that taper into blades of bone and mucus-slick grey flesh marred with swollen lumps and bloody orifices. A mortwight—an undead spirit born of unclean graves.
This does neatly explain why the locals had avoided this area and where the blood came from, you muse to yourself. A mortwight is a fearsome creature to them; you're not sure if mortal weaponry can even kill the beasts.
Unfortunately for it, you were never mortal.
It hisses and shrieks, an unearthly racket that would undoubtedly shatter a human's eardrums, or else send them reeling in a fit of madness. To you, it's just loud and irritating. With a flick of your wrist, you forge your imagination into a razor-sharp filament of twisted light, hanging just above your right wing.
The mortwight spits, howls and heaves in displeasure. It can sense something of what you're doing then. Interesting. A shame that they're really more trouble than they're worth to bind to your service. Gathering its six legs beneath it, it hurls itself through the air at you, a seething avalanche of muscle, bone and blades single-mindedly devoted to ending all that you are.
With another beat of blackened wings, you twist in the air and slam the snarling deluge of violence aside with an arm that would put an iron bar's durability to shame. It crashes into and then through a wall—the thought of the repair makes you wince.
Time to finish this, then. You raise a hand up high above your head, and speak a word of power, the world itself seeming to grind to a halt, moaning and groaning in displeasure. You ignore it with practiced disdain.
Corrupted light spills from the vessel of your soul in a rush, and the shining spear hanging above you gains a twin. And then another, and another, until thirty gleaming instruments of murder spill tainted light over the ruined church foyer.
The mortwight has gotten to its feet, swaying slightly, as if punch drunk. It howls once more, the air vibrating to the point that you can feel it physically rattle your teeth. Enough. You bring your arm down, and thrice-ten lances respond to its call in the only language that it can understand.
It makes a valiant effort to avoid the barrage, but it is spit upon a dozen manifestations of your will, pitifully scrabbling at the ground, its struggles finding no purchase before your wrath. You clench your open hand into a fist and the undead creature erupts into an ugly, emerald blaze, immolated by the fire of your soul.
It does not go quietly, an unholy wail accompanying the scent of cooked flesh that fills the air. You wait, watching it burn until it screams its last.
Dropping back down to the ground, you sigh. Well, that was an entertaining diversion, but now you have to face your true adversary of the day.
Unpacking.
Several hours later finds you in a study that you have painstakingly redecorated with your own ornaments and furniture. The walls have been recoloured with… mostly illusion, honestly. Painting with sorcery is not something you've had great success with before. You'll wait until you've acquired minions to do it for you.
You also need to look into summoning something to remodel the place. While you've fixed up the majority of the damage with sorcery, you have far better things to do than play interior decorator.
For example, what you're doing right now. You lean back into your favourite chair, a kick of a leg sending it into a spin.
Wheee.
Ahem. Back to business—you've cast some divination spells, looked around the area, summoned up some spirits to tell you about this place… the usual, right?
The land you currently reside in—the Kingdom of Albion—is a highly religious place. While it has a monarch who theoretically reigns in their capital city of Londinium, in practice it is the Church who rule the country. Any who attempt to contest them are swiftly subdued by their military arm, the Crusaders.
An order with thousands of swords that they can call to action, divine magic that they can invoke at need, and numerous so-called heroes sworn to their banner--they make an intimidating force, all-in-all.
It's a good thing you were never intending to face them head-on, really. Oh, you might very well manage to carve out your territory doing so directly, but it would lack… finesse.
What's the point of being a Dark Lady who has spent years mastering darker sorcery if you can't do things in style, after all?
Sighing, you toy with a stylus, spinning it between your fingers. Countless half-formed plots and schemes run through your mind, from the banal to the overly ambitious. Things to look forward to—you make a mental note to lay your hands on a set of the local scriptures as soon as you can, the possibilities there make your mouth water.
It's a wonder what you can do with a few terrified mortals and a few more temptations laid in the path of those in power, really.
But first, you have something you need to do. Despite appearances to the contrary, you didn't completely ignore Mother's rants on the need for a strong right hand to govern your dominion.
Frowning, you examine the magic circle in front of you. While you wish that you still had access to your mother's ritual room, beggars can't be choosers. A lonely underground crypt that you hastily cleared out while unpacking will have to do. Shelves line the walls, mostly empty save for a few texts that you'd brought with you, along with the occasional oddity.
And the stuffed crocodile, but that's just there for the atmosphere, really.
A single circle, adorned with sigils written in mercury—the tainted silver—glows with arcane light before you, each letter a blasphemy against all that is sane, each pulse of energy thrumming through the room a soundless scream of protest.
Even now, Mother's consistent repetitions of how important your first lieutenant is are sounding in your skull. You can't afford to screw this up.
A gloved fist stretches out before you as you stoke the pyre of your soul, ushering forth power, streams of starlight spiraling out from your body and into the summoning circle. You incant the spell smoothly, liquid syllables pouring over your tongue like poisoned honey.
"Rwy'n gorchymyn i chi, chwi sy'n gwrando fy alwad..."
There are any number of servants you could summon here, spirits great and small, beasts that stalk the night and monsters that haunt the day. Unfortunately, there's a slight hitch there. To summon a specific creature of any meaningful strength or intellect, you require their name.
The few names you have earnt, stolen or won are not enough for this—the odd sprite or minor spirit of nature. Instead, you are sending out a more… general call. While the summoner's creed of 'Thou shalt not call up what thou canst not put down' still applies… there is very little that you could not put down if it becomes necessary, here in the heart of your domain, new though it may be.
Instead, the entity that answers your call will be one of potential, one with power and—most importantly—the willingness to serve. You are a Fallen Angel, and there are a great many beings that will jump at the opportunity to learn at your feet.
Your voice rises in volume to ring out in a declaration of intent, the sound echoing strangely off the stone walls as you finish the spell.
"Ymddangos ger fy mron, ymgnawdu tywyllwch!"
Star-spun sunfire flashes, bright enough to burn out a mortal's sight, and you gaze upon the guardian you have summoned. Your smile gleams, bright with anticipation, ivory razors reflecting the fading light, and you speak.
"Greetings. I am Gabriel."
What have you summoned?
[ ] A trickster, clad in smoke and shadow. A sly wink, a subtle whisper and sourceless laughter in the night; she wears deception like a dress and weaves illusions as easily as breathing.
[ ] A champion, in armour that cloaks her identity in fire and shadow. A shout, the ringing clamour of blades embattled, the smell of blood on the air; she leaves smouldering ash in her wake and crushes would-be heroes beneath her heel.
[ ] A scholar, eyes gleaming with hunger and enigmatic desire. A secret that is never to be told, a riddle that is never to be solved, a mystery that is never to be unraveled; she seeks all these and more.
A/N: Character sheet will... be up at some point either later tonight or after I've slept, I opted to write the update first. Lair mechanics will come either next update or the one after, I think. We'll see.