Summary: This RP is a period survival horror inspired by a combination of dreams and the works of H.P Lovecraft, particularly "Nyarlathotep" and "The Haunter of the Dark". It involves a semi immortal man touched by the evil and as a result was given the gift of near immortality but also cursed to flee the ravenous appetite of accursed creatures normally unseen and normally unable to interfere with mankind. With unlimited time, he spent the centuries collecting wealth to build a massive estate on land that seemed safe from the things that had stalked him. With and without physical form and seemingly confined to places and objects, Lawrence hid himself in a luxurious prison and busied himself with the tedious tasks of business and hiding himself from anyone who might realize that the heir to Highwind Estate bore an uncanny resemblance to his "father" in his youth.
History: Blessed and cursed with a craven nature, Lawrence was content with building more and more wealth. The other near immortals who'd been created along with him were all dead, either consumed early by those things or killed in Providence, Rhode Island in 1880 in an ill-begotten attempt to destroy what they believed was
a source of nightmare plaguing them. Whether there were others was unknown to him, but if there were they certainly seemed to be doing a good job of hiding their origins.
Conflict: Uncertain times and hopeless sentiment were pervasive in Europe; class strife and pestilence wrought havoc upon the institutions of power and the long standing authority of religion. Used to the centuries of malady and disease, Lawrence barely concerned himself with the contents of the newspaper dated 1 MARCH 1901 until an article caught his attention and filled him with a familiar and warning terror. Underneath a blurred photograph of a crowd before a dark figure, Lawrence took in the words that confirmed the thing, or at least a thing that had hunted him unsuccessfully for ages had finally introduced itself to the world. A nameless man, of old stock, tall, dark in appearance like the ancient pharaohs of old, had first arrived in Damascus and shown wonders to the Muslems. In the night, guided by a sense of desperation, cities had emptied into the streets and sought him when he was near. His origin was unknown, but some spoke that he had come from the plains of the Nile Delta, while others swore he had come out of the dunes of Arabia. It was said that he imparted answers to any question, and that when he'd finally introduced himself to the European Continent in Spain that hundreds of Arabs and Africans followed in his wake, stopping only to praise and discuss his words. So strenuous was his pace that scores of the exhausted died on the roads behind him. Speaking in Gibraltar, European newspapers reported of his wondrous advances in magnetism and electricity as well as his inhuman nature; it was said even the wild beasts licked his hands.
For potential partners: I've written a sadly extensive backstory on Lawrence, but will leave that for the RP itself. For your character, feel free to create anything and everything, male or female, with a few exceptions. The story doesn't necessarily have to have a happy ending, although in the same sentence I'm not committed to killing of our characters or making them insane.
*Don't play as someone who's killed or successfully fought whatever is it haunting Lawrence and humanity. It's OP.
*Please don't make someone infinitely older and/or incredibly powerful where he/she can fight the monsters initially. That develops later.
*Don't have all of the answers in the beginning. Try to approach it from the perspective of you, as a human being trying to deal with someone infinitely beyond your power to resolve.
With that being said, go ahead and make your character to the limits of your imagination. Take liberties and make them interesting.
Added note, to those who I proposed a very very rough draft of this several months ago, I apologize for it falling apart. The story wasn't ready.
Lawrence Elliot Highwind:
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Friday, March 1st, 1901
In the guest house where he usually preferred to stay, Lawrence perused the "family" books as he carefully rerecorded ancient pages from centuries past onto a modern ledger. It was tedious work that kept him protected from his "parents" in the event that they tried to skim from him; in truth, he allowed a certain level of corruption to keep them satisfied, to a point. These parents were one of the better guardians he'd chosen, and with the exception of womanizing on the part of his father and an obsession with philanthropic causes on his mothers he never felt the slightest inkling that either would betray him. Still, they were aging. Buried in the one room truly kept to himself on the manor, Lawrence stopped writing for a moment to look upon the stones above him in reflection; it was one room that he couldn't afford to modernize, and it betrayed the post medieval roots of the structure. In truth, it was the oldest of all the buildings on the estate and his first home.
Satisfied with his work as he finished the ledger, he blew out the candle before navigating his way through the darkness to the door; since he could remember the room had been the same, and expertly he arrived at the worn handle. Despite being several hundred years old, the room was kept immaculately dry as it housed the finances and histories of his namesake. As he'd arranged, the more managerial aspects of day to day business were handled by his father although Lawrence preferred to sign off on all agreements of importance himself; unbeknownst to him, his forgeries had become sloppy and distinguishable to the discerning eye. To others, he preferred to be a polite if not quiet young man trying to take an active role in the governance of his household. Underlying this seemingly organized and repetitive lifestyle was a terror that seemingly only affected him, and was the primary reason that the young master rarely left Highwind Estate.
He first realized its existence long ago, shortly after he realized his aging had ceased in the apse of an abandoned and decrepit abbey; in those times, pestilence had stripped him of his true parents, friends, and lover. Alone, he'd come for solitude and to seek the compassion of whatever higher being was present and had instead come face to face with some immortal and nameless horror; at that time, it didn't even have form, just a malevolent presence that left him petrified before he fled, covered in the blood and grime of those who had been his companions. Somehow, it seemed tied to that place back then, but as the years and generations progressed he'd come to find that almost nothing was beyond its grasp. Nothing except for the land he'd found and built his dynasty upon. The grounds themselves had seemed so lush and full of life back then that he was sure it was special somehow, and until today on a chilly winter morning, it had been.
Already, thoughts of the futile attempt by those similarly afflicted to kill what they believed was it echoed in his mind. In the late fall of 1880, he'd received an invitation to Providence, Rhode Island from a name he'd imagined dead hundreds of years ago. Leaving the comfortable confines of his Estate, Lawrence made the journey to find that the collection of youths he'd abandoned during his first experience with the nightmare had finally congregated. Of what he'd thought were the initial seventeen, only seven remained excluding himself. A finding among one had led to a search for the others like him, and Bertrand, a powerfully built French youth corded with muscle informed them that he had found a weakness in the monster, and that he intended to kill it.
Despite Lawrence protesting that the thing wasn't one monster but a host of nightmares, the party had went forward to an ancient stone holding built by the French centuries before the fledgling United States even had a name for itself. Superstition had resulted in a mixture of fear and curiosity towards the fortress by the Indians, and sacrifices of men and animals weren't infrequent. Despite lacking the faith of their Indian forebearers, the settlers avoided the structure and the grey, dead grass that grew around it, and spoke in rumors of why snow never seemed to settle on its grounds. It was there, surrounded by that hellish aura that Bertand had found at last what he believed to be a den of the evil, and had brought his companions together to destroy once and for all the bane of his existence.
Last edited by Johan; 03-15-2013 at 09:46 PM.
“Body and spirit had never blended. Never in physical action had I discovered the chilling satisfaction of words. Never in words had I experienced the hot darkness of action. Somewhere there must be a higher principle, which reconciles art and action."
This, therefore, is a faded dream of the time when I went down into the dust and noise of the Eastern market-place, and with my brain and muscles, with sweat and constant thinking, made others see my visions coming true. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that all was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, and make it possible.