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.
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.
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.
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.
