In the dawn of days, there was a great war of godly scale that shook the whole of Outremer. On one side there fought the forces of the untamed wilds, of chaos and evil: wyrms and krakens, giants and demons, warlocks and beasts of the moon, unspeakable and forgotten things. All of these monsters, great and small, bowed at the feet of Chernobog, the Black God. He inhaled courage and breathed out despair, devoured hope and begat only strife and misery, for his wont was nothing less than the complete destruction of mankind and ruination of the world.
To oppose him there were men. Brave and strong men, with bronze in their hands and the White God ever at their head and in their hearts. Aye, in those days the Exalted walked amongst men, and so it was that good triumphed over evil -- but barely, and with great cost. The Chernobog’s evil was rooted too deep in the world for him to be truly killed, so his body was hacked into at least a dozen pieces that were strewn across Outremer in the darkest of hidest places. Even still, the Black God’s memory and his corruption persist.
The name Chernobog is now all but forgotten by all save the most insidious of heretics and witches, being so profane that its very utterance is forbidden, just as the Exalted’s own name is too sacred for any but the most devout of priests to know. But legends still remind men of what their ancient enemy was, of all his crimes: as the Chernobog was at last smote down, he vowed eternal vengeance and threw a profane curse upon the land. His last rancid breath brought rot into the air and cursed the land with blights and diseases forevermore, and the rivers of his black blood rolled across the land and poisoned the Earth just as his hundred claws sank into her and grievously her, the hatred and thrumming of his heart he cast into the seas that it might ever stir storms. And he finally promised that one day, his own spawn, his greatest and most monstrous servants, and those mortals that lusted for his power would rise; that they would come as maggots to rot, and so complete his foul legacy.
And you are one of those that intend to fulfill this Black Prophecy.
RP Purpose and Mechanics
This RP flouts the usual tradition of stories where we see from the point of view of the good guys. Here we have an RP where instead of the questing knight, the humble peasant turned hero, or the wizened wizard, you are some fell warlord, monstrous beast, or other dark power. Your characters might only aspire to have a small realm and bastion of their own or they might seek nothing less than the utter annihilation of mankind; they might be willing to tolerate or even ally with the other various scions and rogue beings, or they might want to cast down all their bastard siblings and reign uncontested as the second Chernobog. That’s all up to you.
As the introduction alludes to, there are two general roles that you might fulfill: that of a scion of the old Chernobog, or that of some sort of rogue being. You may have one character of each type if you’d like; however, if you do that then as a general rule your rogue being should not align with or serve your scion. The point of having one of each would be to allow you to interact with more people and more characters, and having both your rogue being and scion together all the time defeats the purpose of that.
Scions would be the most innately powerful of the two categories, their nature as the Chernobog’s spawn making them something like demigods. They would more like than not be remembered in some form in the legends of old, for they would have all served in the Chernobog’s armies and doubtless committed great crimes of their own, and for their part, they would have been slain or banished to some other plane or imprisoned by the Exalted One and his followers. Having only just now been resurrected or summoned or broken free as the case may be, a scion will be returning to a somewhat unfamiliar world where steel has replaced bronze and the men are much more numerous than they once were, even as the savage beings and monsters have diminished. Still, a scion should be able to use their dark powers to raise a new army easily enough. Perhaps the pitiful remnants of the Chernobog’s old horde could be rallied, or some of the weak-willed humans subjugated by sword or by poisoned word and manipulation. And failing that, there are ways to use foul magic to twist and corrupt life to make new breeds of monstrous creatures, ways to raise the dead, ways to conjure demons and monsters from other realms. A true heir of Chernobog would find a way.
Not all lords have their throne by birthright, just as not all scions need draw their powers through the Chernobog’s blood coursing in their veins. It would perhaps be possible for a mere mortal, through ambition or curiosity or some other compulsion, to ascend to the status of a scion. The most likely way for this to happen would be for the person to come across one of the Chernobog’s body parts and take in its power -- willingly or otherwise. This sort of scion would start off weaker with only nascent powers, but would have the advantage of greater familiarity with the world and perhaps they would even have an army or a realm to their names already by that point. How much of their own personality would persist after ascending (or being corrupted -- it’s all a matter of perspective) could vary, and would be up to you.
The second category is more broad and flexible. Rogue beings could take many forms and vary quite greatly in power level -- anything from an ancient vampire to a dragon can fall under the realm of possibility. And while a rogue being could be some ancient monster that’s been around since the dawn of time and served under the Chernobog, it could also just be some humble orcish chieftain or some evil-hearted human sorcerer. While rogue beings can be powerful, their magical might is not so great as that of the scions. It would be harder for them to bring down the realms of men by themselves, to raise an army, or to carve out an empire of their own. For those reasons a rogue being might do well to align with a scion for protection and mutual benefit, but some might choose to stay rogue -- the path is yours to choose.
This would be a mostly sandbox-style RP where we give all participants a lot of leeway to worldbuild and fill in the empty spaces on the map, either by canonizing smaller settlements and such or expanding upon the nature of larger ones. We GMs do not need to control the human opposition along every inch of the way; you can have your character sack a village or slay some band of knights without involving us in the post, but if your intention is to topple a kingdom or conquer some major city then please do consult us. We reserve the right to throw a metaphorical monkey wrench into your operations, to keep things from getting complacent. You can't expect to rampage across the world with nothing ever going wrong, now can you?
Outremer, our setting and details thereof
Though sailors speak of queer and exotic lands beyond the seas, the scope of this RP is limited to the land of Outremer. It is a quite isolated (both geographically and politically) island of a size comparable to that of Great Britain. In present times Outremer is politically fractured into many realms of petty-kings and dukes, but was once unified under a single kingdom for many centuries following the Chernobog’s defeat. In those times of unity, the last of the great monsters and wyrms were hunted down and either vanquished or driven into the deepest lairs and hiding places, and his more organized and numerous followers like the ogres and goblins were diminished and driven into hiding if not extinction. There was a ‘common tongue’ universally spoken across Outremer and it is the root of all modern languages, though the centuries have of course bastardized certain regional dialects to the point that they have grown very distinct, and are oft only barely intelligible by speakers of other heavily changed dialects.
Despite its small size, the island’s climate is quite varied. Though much of the coastline remains temperate, the placement of mountain ranges has created an arid region in the south and a cold highland in the north.
The land has been mostly tamed, with true wilderness being the exception rather than the norm throughout much of the island and most of the arable land being farmed. Only a few true wilds remain in some of the most rugged, inhospitable, and remote locations; in such places there might still be great beasts and maybe even some goblins or other wretched descendants of the forces that once served in the Chernobog’s vast hosts.
Geography
Marleon was the old Holy Kingdom’s capital; it remains a wealthy and large city and the seat of a powerful eponymous kingdom that encompasses the central plains of Outremer and all the pastures, farmlands, and little woods within. With its windswept plains and light hills, the kingdom is renowned for its many knightly orders and the great warhorses that they ride. Marleon has long seen the city of Arcos as an upstart rival, looking down on their politics, their tongue, their greed, and just about everything else. This boiled over into a war relatively recently, and that wasn’t the first. Though a truce was declared, there’s plenty of bad blood between the two states and it would not be hard to imagine the feeble peace breaking to give way to a renewed conflict.
Arcos, a merchant city on the eastern coast, is situated on both sides of the Fingers, a spur of land that is the delta of the mightiest river in Outremer. As befitting of such a location, Arcos is similarly the greatest port in Outremer, with a good harbor, massive shipyards, abundant fish in the nearby waters, and even a few trade ties with exotic lands across the sea. Trading in foreign spices and luxury goods has made Arcos the richest nation of Outremer and a strong rival to Marleon. The Arcosi are governed by merchant princes in a plutocratic oligarchy, with feudalism and serfdom having been largely replaced by a limited sort of democracy -- even the poorest inhabitants of the city of Arcos as well as the smaller coastal ports and towns under its dominion enjoy many benefits.
Paterdomus is the seat of a theocratic state whose holy warriors zealously guards the Howling Gap and the Firth of Fire from Arugothic warbands and raiders. In the past it has launched several ill-fated crusades against Arugoth itself, only to be broken by the savage orcs (who have an annoying tendency to set aside their countless quarrels and blood-feuds and band together every time a human army tries to finally wipe them out, at least long enough to drive the hated humans back). Though old allies of Marleon, in recent times relations between the two states have soured due to Paterdomus’ refusal to aid Marleon in its conflict against the Arcosi.
Portus Cruor is isolated, with no hinterland to sustain it. There’s also no overland road from it to any other place, but that’s just as well seeing as honest people have no business travelling there. The city is known as much for poverty and disease as it is for being a den to smugglers, slavers, pirates, and worse -- such trades are more or less the only industries save fishing that can bring wealth and sustenance to the port. It also has a reputation for lawlessness, but that’s not entirely fair; the governor, a former pirate they say, has enforcers on the streets that serve to keep at least an illusion of peace, usually managing to prevent the violence and worst of crimes from boiling over and consuming the streets. They will not hesitate to seize particularly problematic troublemakers and hang or flog them within the hour, without the need for any petty formalities like a trial.
Arugoth is orc country, a defensible vale home to some of the last and most prideful vestiges of the Chernobog’s dark horde. Orcs teem all across this land, untold thousands of them. Rather than grouping into small bands to dwell within secluded redoubts or hidden lairs, here they live openly in sprawling encampments, villages, and even fortresses. In the southeast nestled in the foothills of the Ashmont, they even occupy the foreboding Basalt Spire that was a bastion raised by the Chernobog himself -- a formidable and accursed place to be sure, even if the massive tower was shattered in the Dawn Times and remains half-ruined. But Arugoth is not a unified land or even a true realm, rather just the name of the vale that’s home to at least a dozen ever-shifting tribes, clans, and hordes of orcs that constantly feud with one another, only occasionally striking out elsewhere to raid the humans for greater wealth and glory.
Twenty Halls lies to the west of Marleon, stretching from the westernmost Ashmonts to the very end of the coastline. It is a land of thickly forested hills, swampy fens, wide clear lakes, and churning rocky fjords which grow stormier and more restless as one goes westward towards the open ocean. The people here are a crafty and hardened lot, skilful sailors and fishermen, grim warriors and fiery-tongued bards. Many of them live as tightly-knit clans, assembling in great wooden longhouses and mead halls. Legends say that originally there were twenty of these great families, which gave the land its name, but they have since grown and splintered into many more. Marauding trolls occasionally stalk the land, and tales of heroic champions setting out to slay the beasts are a popular subject of bardic songs and poems. Twenty Halls has long been insular, holding little contact with the inland kingdoms, and unscrupulous clans sometimes raid and abduct country folk to sell as slaves on the market.
Calesbail, the land of the Cales, is a rugged region of highlands and hills in the northwest of Outremer. The capital is more like a large town than a city, ringed by a crumbling stone wall. But the lands around are old and have many redoubts and motte-and-bailey forts, so invading Calesbail or sacking its hinterlands would not be a trifling task. The thin and rocky soil is poor for farming and so the locals mostly raise goats and sheep on the hills, and fish the rivers and coast. The Cales are a folk that have long suffered raids from the hands of both orcs out of Arugoth and the clans of Twenty Halls, so they have grown into a mistrustful, short-tempered, and martial folk. They tend to be tall, long-limbed, and of red or orange hair. Occasionally they trade with Paterdomus and more rarely Marleon, sending caravans by land through the Howling Gap.
The Ashmonts are the only true great mountain range in Outremer, and they are formidable not just for their size and bleak granite and basalt cliffs, but also for their occasional volcanic activity in the northeastern parts, especially by the sea. This mountain range shelters the vale of Arugoth and is what has allowed the orcs to reign there for so long, but it also traps them as Paterdomus guards the southern side of the mountain chain and nearly all of the passes there, from the humblest trails to the great Howling Gap. Still, there are some trails and secretive tunnels that not even Paterdomus knows about, and clever warbands of orcs sometimes find a way to sneak through. The mountains that branch off to run along north of the Howling Gap and along the western side of Arugoth are smaller, less watched, more easily crossed, and are guarded by the Cales rather than the warriors of Paterdomus. Still, the orcs rarely bother crossing there as the pickings are not so good and when they do raid west, they usually prefer to go by ship and follow the coast.
The Firth of Fire is a deep but narrow and treacherous stretch of water that separates the northeastern Ashmonts by Arugoth from Paterdomus’ coastal lands. It’s named for the great deal of volcanic activity that can set the whole bay aglow, for the largest volcano in all of Outremer weeps magma right into the waters.
The Howling Gap is the largest, fastest, and most navigable pass through the Ashmonts. The southern end of the pass has been heavily fortified by Paterdomus with a massive garrisoned wall, called the Ashgate. Any human travelers can pass through if they pay a hefty toll, which goes towards paying for the armed patrols that go through the rest of the pass and mountains in an attempt to ward off any bands of marauding Arugothic orcs. The orcs have tried invading through the past, but they haven’t made another attempt in living memory, their last army having taken grievous losses after being rebuffed by Paterdomus and its Ashgate.
Stonetree Point is a cape renowned for having a great forest of petrified trees, some of them still standing and others buried beneath volcanic ash from long ago. The area is claimed and controlled by Paterdomus.
The Gulf of Pumice is named for the queer volcanic stone that always floats through its waters, sometimes in chunks large enough to be rafts or even floating islands. Occasionally Arugothic orcs have been known to try sailing through those waters as they’re far less treacherous than the Firth of Fire, but both Arcos and Paterdomus have patrolling fleets that prowl in search of orcs and pirates.
The Broken Isles are for the most part just bleak and dreary chunks of grey and black stone that jut out from the Gulf of Pumice, the remains of ancient volcanoes. A few of them still burn occasionally, but not nearly so much as the Ashmonts around the Firth of Fire. Pirate dens and orc holdfasts are known to frequently crop up on the isles until they eventually make enough of a nuisance of themselves to draw the wrath of the fleets of either Paterdomus or the Arcos, if not both.
Skull Island used to have a different name, but now is styled for the fate of all its human inhabitants whose severed heads were stacked into grisly pyramids. Once it was home to a moderately prosperous trading post as well as the most lucrative silver mine in all of Outremer. But in the chaos of the Holy Kingdom’s fall, the colony was overrun by bands of trolls that descended from lairs in the northern parts of the island, and perhaps also from the nearby Pine Island. The trolls now thrive in the ruins of the colony and have greatly grown in numbers, if the sailors’ tales are to be believed.
The Greatwood is by far the largest forest left in Outremer, and in the south where it starts to blend into the swamp of Cape Rot, the trees are so gnarled and ancient and dense that the land is nigh impassible. This stretch of land is some of the most untamed left in Outremer. What few human settlements exist owe only tenuous allegiance to the kingdom of Marleon, or in some cases to one of the clans of Twenty Halls.
Bad Teeth is a southern stronghold of orcs, though the ones in this settlement have degenerated and grown smaller and weaker (albeit no less savage, and perhaps even more cunning) than their distant kin in Arugoth. The goblins, as this particular breed of orcs are sometimes called, dwell alarmingly close to Portus Cruor, but there is enough swampland and dense forest between to keep the two somewhat insulated from the filth of one another, and that combined with the two settlements both being quite defensible seems to prevent much in the way of fighting or raiding. It’s hard to say where the name Bad Teeth comes from; however, there are a few good possibilities. The settlement is mostly subterranean, and superficially the hollowed hills are a bit pointy and so could be said to be ‘Bad Teeth’. Perhaps more likely is that the name is a jape about the prevalence of scurvy, a disease that plagues the denizens of this place as much as the pirates of Portus Cruor and certainly leaves its victims with rotted teeth. In any case, several thousand inhabitants dwell inside Bad Teeth, perhaps not just goblins swarming out like ants from a mound, but also (if the rumors are true) some humans so reviled that they were driven out of Portus Cruor.
Cape Rot is a treacherous and low-lying marshland by the sea, with snakes, poisonous plants, and the occasional swamp troll, all of which seem to work in concert to try and kill any man that sets foot there. For this reason it’s almost entirely uninhabited, save for Portus Cruor in the south and Bad Teeth in the north where the swampland starts to become more solid and give way to the thickest parts of the Greatwood.
The Crannoglands are another large swamp similar to Cape Rot, though this place is tamer and more uniformly settled by people that live on stilted or floating homes.
Goldport is a city that currently is controlled by Marleon, who wrested it from Arcos at the end of their most recent war. Arcos, Portus Cruor, and Marleon have all fought over it in the past due to its strategic position, the wealth that its harbor commands, and the goldmines it controls in the hills upriver.
The Fell Peoples
While the hosts of Chernobog teemed with many beings strange and terrible, their backbone were the monstrous, inhuman races that became known as the Fell Peoples. Orcs, ogres and trolls once swept the land in thronging hordes, revelling in the slaughter and destruction they sowed. No one knows for certain where they came from, and myths and rumours abound about their origins. Some believe that they were once men twisted and transformed by the dark one through torment and mutilation, others that they were raised from the soil with enchantments, others yet that they were bred in the depths of the earth from still fouler things. Whatever the truth might be, it is certain that only Chernobog and his scions held the knowledge of bringing them forth in great numbers, for since the disappearance of their masters they have dwindled to a shadow of their former might.
A rowdy and fractious kind, the Fell Peoples were only ever united under the banner of the Black God. When he was vanquished, their many warbands and tribes fell into disorder and took to fighting each other as much as the forces of men. This left them easy prey for the victorious armies of the Holy Kingdom, and their remnants were scattered and hunted down to the ends of Outremer. Now few of them remain, skulking in the most remote and untamed corners of the land and only occasionally making a nuisance of themselves. Though some rare places, such as Arugoth and Bad Teeth, house more sizable holdouts, they by and large remain incapable of organizing anything more than sporadic raiding parties, and are only kept safe by the imperviousness of their lairs.
The most numerous and cunning of the Fell Peoples, orcs are likewise much more similar to men than the hulking trolls and ogres. Hunched, robust, with bestial eyes, fanged mouths and flat, snout-like noses, they are as hardy as they are hideous, able to march for days and eke out a living in the most unwelcoming of places. It is thought that Chernobog moulded them to be warriors from birth, and the spark of strife burns through everything they do. Their societies tend to be belligerent and tribalistic, rarely more complex than a loose alliance of warbands, and their cultures revolve around conflict and supremacy through force; this treachery and quarrelous nature means that their leaders usually have short reigns. That is not to say that orcs are mindless brutes, for they have shown themselves capable of adopting crafts such as metalsmithing, and are capable of devising deceptively elaborate battle-plans. What they lack, however, is loyalty and stability, and without a powerful leader to create such things by dominating them, maintaining discipline, and whipping them into shape, they are unlikely to accomplish much.
Among the foul breeds, trolls are known to be the furthest removed from mankind in appearance. Their craggy hides have been compared to rock and tree bark, not only for their grey and corrugated looks but also for their sturdiness. It takes a warrior of extraordinary strength to harm a troll, unless striking at the scaly underside of their throats and huge misshapen heads. Anyone who has faced one of the beasts in combat will advise to swiftly aim for such a deadly blow, for a troll’s long arms and club-like fists make it a terrible foe more than capable of smashing bones through the thickest of armour. Trolls are never troubled by infection or disease, are sometimes capable of even regenerating lost limbs, and can live almost forever if not met with some violent end. Fortunately, trolls are now far rarer than orcs, and much more difficult to coerce into working as a large force. Left to their own devices, they are fiercely territorial, living alone or in small groups and often staking out a claim to some wildland lair and slaying and devouring any who approach. Trolls covet precious objects, especially gold and silver, and will often seek to steal them or even take them as bribes; the older and more complacent of them may sometimes content themselves with demanding tribute from the travellers they ambush, giving rise to tales of bridge-trolls in lawless hinterlands. A clever scion could certainly make use of that avarice to sway trolls to his cause.
Prodigiously large and strong, but infamously irascible and dim-witted, ogres were dreaded by the armies of man in the age when the Fell Peoples took to the battlefield. Nothing seemed to be able to stop these towering brutes on the charge, and when their masters wished for a fort to be taken in haste they were known to batter down its gates with the force of their fists. Though ogres are sloth and gluttonous and lack the endurance of marching orcs or the toughness of trolls, they can move surprisingly fast in short bursts and have a terrible strength when provoked or driven into battle. On its own, an ogre is certainly a fearsome threat, yet they are dim-witted and lumbering beasts that often lack the patience to come up with a plan more elaborate than rampaging across everything in sight, which makes them easily contained nuisances for a well-armed force when they leave their dens. The ogres are well aware of this fact and often claim to hate “tricky” orcs and humans; however, they strangely also feel a natural urge to follow and obey those cleverer than themselves, a trait that makes them easily manipulated by any that can survive long enough to figure out how to communicate with them. Ogres have grown more and more rare across Outremer, to the point that they are almost never seen outside of the craggy Ashmonts and Arugoth. Rumours say that the orcs dwelling in that place have enslaved some of them as labourers and battle thralls. For all their wrath and sloth and gluttony, a scion might find ogres surprisingly agreeable and persuadable; it’s just their nature to serve.
Magic
True magic is an elusive power in this world, difficult to wield and always coming at a cost: be that in the form of time, rare reagents, sacrificial blood, some mix of the three, or more. Magic is like fire, useful yet dangerous, only an order of magnitude harder to control or predict than mere flames. In general the usage of magic is too laborious to be of much use in combat, as extensive preparations must go into any ritual that hopes to channel potent magic.
Much of the humans’ lore and understanding of the arcane has faded over the years. Still, there are doubtless some old traditions that have still existed; the clergy, especially those of Paterdomus, would be most likely to know such secrets. More sinister woods witches and heretical warlocks might also exist, though for every true one that deserved his fate there’s probably a dozen falsely accused that end up on the gibbet or burnt at the stake.
If ever the fell folk wielded such powers, they have forgotten how. Ancient scions and rogue beings certainly might remember the ways, though.
From the old myths come tales of magic being used for a great variety of things, from speaking to spirits to reanimating the dead, from twisting the flesh of mundane creatures to summoning things from nightmarish realms beyond mortal understanding.
This will certainly be more of a soft magic system, without rigid overarching rules or much of an explanation for how magic functions or comes into existence. Besides being thematically appropriate that magic be strange and poorly understood, this works best in a collaborative story setting because it enables many forms of magic to exist without precluding or contradicting one another. As magic can come in various flavors, as alluded above, one sorcerer shouldn’t necessarily be able to do what another one can; nonetheless, I would like for you to at least have in mind what the general limitations of your specific character’s magical powers are, if they have any.
As a general rule, things like time travel or use of alchemy to create gunpowder and bombs are not going to be allowed because they are too extreme and not conducive to the sort of theme that we are going for. There’s also a fine line with things like demon summoning and necromancy, too -- those types of magic are alluded to and certainly allowed, but try not to overdo it to the point that you’re overrunning the world in a matter of days. Once again, magic is meant to be somewhat slow and laborious, limited in its potency rather than an all-encompassing, insurmountable, and overbearing force. If you are in doubt as to whether something is permissible, by all means ask.
Technology Level and Culture
There was once a single, unified realm of man that ruled almost all of Outremer, founded in the dawn of days and ruled by a line of kings descended from one great general that had been crowned by the Exalted One himself. But change comes -- men grew more numerous, bronze gave way to steel, and nothing lasts forever. Although this so-called Holy Kingdom lasted for a hundred lifetimes, the line of kings was eventually broken and the realm fell into civil war and splintered apart into many divided states. That happened centuries ago, so there has been ample time for new national identities to grow between the various states, and for grudges and alliances to have formed and shifted even as language and religion and nearly all aspects of the various societies slowly drifted apart.
Outremer now stands technologically and culturally similar to Europe as it was in the Late Date Ages and Early Medieval time periods; perhaps on par with Earth as it was around the ninth or tenth century.
Though men learned the secrets of working iron and steel a long time ago, and now even the savage orcs have had enough time to master such crafts, good steel remains expensive and skilled smiths are a precious commodity. Most common warriors would be levied peasants with poor arms and equipment. Men-at-arms that make a profession of killing might own mail and helmet and perhaps even a sword, but most common warriors would fight with furs, leather, or padded cloth for armor and for weapons bring spear, axe, or hammer. For the most part only knights and lords can afford to go into battle fully clad in breastplate, greaves, and the like.
Serfdom and/or chattel slavery are nearly universal institutions across the land, though different cultures may of course have very different rules and expectations for such practices.
Though the Old Common tongue of the Holy Kingdom has given way to numerous bastard languages that emerged from local dialects, there are enough similarities for at least some level of understanding; sailors, caravaneers, and the like can usually communicate through one another through the “trade tongue,” using gestures, basic expressions, and what common words remain widely recognizable. Clergy, scholars, and well-educated nobles might remain well enough versed in the Old Common to communicate more easily in that way.
On the other hand, the various tribes and clans of orcs and other dark creatures speak many different tongues and usually cannot understand each other very easily at all -- violence is the closest thing they’ve retained as a universal language in their centuries of chaos and division. In bygone days Chernobog and his lieutenants issued their commands using a sorcerous speech of power which had the virtue of being intelligible to them all, but that knowledge has since been lost and only some vestiges remain in fragmented inscriptions and some ancient names. Perhaps some of the Chernobog’s scions would still remember this language though, and if so, it could be quite advantageous were the scion to try rallying numerous bands of fell folk together.
The Exalted One, or Exalted, or White God, is a warrior god of honor and justice that is worshiped by the humans of Outremer. There are different sects that differ in the finer details of doctrine, but nonetheless worship of the Exalted God was the state religion of the Holy Kingdom and it remains such for all of the successor states that have splintered off. Some major dogmas that are shared by almost all practitioners are as follows:
The Black God (whose name -- Chernobog -- is never to be uttered) is almost universally reviled as a sort of devil or dark god, and is blamed as being the source of disease, earthquakes, storms, and almost all maladies and disasters and ills that befall the world, and a few would go so far as to say that he’s even the cause of death and that men were immortal in the earliest of days. How much of this is actually true is hard to say.
The color white is sacred due to association with the Exalted One, and wearing it is a privilege restricted to knights and clergymen. Some cultures similarly associate the color black with evil, curses, or misfortune.
Clergymen and well-educated people still read and write in the Old Common tongue of the Holy Kingdom, as the holy scriptures remain written in that language.
The Exalted One is definitely gone, no longer walking the land of Outremer in tangible form as he did in the Dawn Days when he led the war against the Chernobog. Exactly why or where he went is surprisingly an uncertain topic and one at the fiery heart of much of the schism between the different sects of his worshipers: most seem to think that he’s ascended back to his heavenly plane above, and that he still watches down upon Outremer, hears prayers, and occasionally grants divine intervention.
The Exalted One supposedly has an actual name, but only the most devout and high-ranking of clergy are permitted to know it. Some say that they’ve forgotten it, or never knew in the first place.
Some of the fell folk (as well as some particularly vile and heretical humans, witches and warlocks and the like) still remember the Chernobog, and maybe even some of the scions that were his demigod children, and sacrifice to them. To many though, the Dark Lord is just a legend and one that they don’t treat with much reverence. Others have forgotten entirely.
Credits and References
Big thanks to my Co-GM @Oraculum for helping me to write out this OOC and for always being there to bounce ideas.
This comes as a continuation of sorts of some old RPs based upon a computer game called Dungeon Keepers. Over 10 years ago the first of them started on the now-defunct Spore Forums, and afterward @Lugubrious@BBeast and myself brought them to the Oldguild and then here. I would like to give my thanks to them for their help way back then, and to them as well as everyone who joined for the fun memories of those RPs. This is the most recent of those old RPs, and this was a spinoff that I made later.
The cool picture was artwork commissioned by a friend of mine who is working on making a new computer game with a theme very similar to this RP. So thanks to him for letting me use his picture, and if you’re interested in his thing then you can check out his Discord server here.
Identity: What the character is known as. Can include names, titles, nicknames, kennings and more.
Type: Scion or rogue being?
Myth: Describe what is notable about your character in the form of a brief narrative. This would include their history (or maybe just speculation about it), distinctive features of appearance and personality, and remarkable abilities they may have, as well as anything else you feel should be mentioned. It doesn’t have to take the form of dialogue or a full story scene, but it can if you so prefer. Just remember to keep it fairly short - there’s no need to overdo this part.
EDIT: Here's my sheet. Let me know if I should change anything, and as for the theme I'm going for, it's very much Lovecraftian. More the creeping madness and horror part, especially near the beginning of his arc.
Myth: When the last campaign was fought between the forces of light and darkness, the Great Druid Shiran was initially on the side of the light. As a druid tied to the spirit of the land, she opposed the corruption spread by Chernobog. She worked with the children of men, teaching them ways of woodcraft and survival, of pathfinding and archery. Her students became lesser druids or rangers.
But as the battle progressed, Shiran saw that the goal of the White God was not simply to check Chernobog but to force him out of the world. The White God's mission would upset the careful balance between life and death, chaos and order, mankind and the wild. Shiran began to speak against the mission, and finally turned against the light. For her betrayal, every last one of her students turned against her. She was struck down and killed, her body left to rot deep in the swamps.
The name Shiran has been largely forgotten by civilized creatures, although the name could still be heard in the hum of insects deep in the swamps. Recently there have been sightings of something moving on the edges of the Greatwood. Something that seems to be made of the muck of the swamp and the branches of the ancient trees. Perhaps there are some things that cannot truly be killed.
In case anybody here is turning up without having seen my message on the interest check, here is a link to the Discord.
@Humble1 Would you happen to already be on the Discord under a different username? I'd be interested in hearing about some of your potential plans for Shiran.
Identity: Valen of House Sarethi, head of one of the greatest Merchant Houses of Goldport; secretly also a ruling Triumvir of the Crimson Synod, the ruling body of vampires in Marleon, Goldport, and Paterdomus.
Felt like I should mention I've been lurking ln this since the int check was posted. I already have a character adaptation in mind. It won't take me too long to write it up.
Myth: In the world of Outremer, strange beings that harken back to the shadowed days of old are not always restricted to the woods or to the mountains. The cities of man may, in their hungrier and crueller parts, offer shelter to terrible spirits that lurk in the corners of eye and alley. The lust, wrath, and gluttony of man provides a feeding ground for beings of darkness, and none have gorged themselves upon such vices as the Bartering Lady has gorged on Avarice.
For centuries, perhaps since the days when Outremer was unified and its glory great, lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.
Powers: Dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis.
Consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed.
Smod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.
Realm: Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed. Ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate.
Alright, for real this time. Here's a character concept I'm messing around with.
Nice to be here again!
Kinna Brookwidth
Rogue Being
During the nadir of the world, when men were weak and darkness strong, the beast Chernobog brought forth spirits of carnal desire to divide his foes and control his underlings. These supernatural parasites would possess the daughters of mankind, and empower their bodies to inflame the base lusts of those around them. For decades such powers could reside invisible within the bodies of humanfolk, breeding as they bred, emerging at the dark god's signal as if from nightmare. In this way Chernobog preyed upon the weakness of mortals to tempt men into betrayal, set tribe against tribe, poison the minds of the wise and enthrall the fragile will of his infantry.
But the Chernobog's conquest did not endure and his forces were finally scattered. Under the reign of the Exalted One, succubi were exorcised and killed by the dozen. The exalted Church fostered marriage and holy chastity among its faithful, and strong traditions of love and purity left no corner of Outremer for a succubus to hide.
No corner- for any ordinary succubus.
Kinna Brookwidth was born already possessed by a ghost of the primordial days, as was her mother, and her mother's mother one hundred generations before her. A twist of fate ensured that her birth was auspicious for the amassing darkness in other ways- beautiful down to the last pore, she is the last heir of a small but deeply loved house of northern Arcos, the senior statesmen and officers of her father already loyal to her by the grace of his dying wish.
Culled for millenia by the churches of Outremer, the spirit within her no longer bears the power to change her form, nor call up magic, nor even to defend herself with inhuman teeth and claws. Even the simple ability to move from one body to another has been lost for lack of use, and if the spirit tried to escape from Kinna's body for more than a few seconds, it would surely die. What little remains of the Chernobog's ancient creation is a few words of that god's foul speech, and a trace of the old blood, with which some cruel sorcerer may one day resurrect the true succubi of old.
The power to inflame the hearts of men, too, is gone from Kinna. What the church has bred into her in its stead is exactly what it always sought to foster: an untouchable, radiant soul of purity and innocence. This soul has slept within her bloodline for a thousand years, with no spirit ever able to call it up. Now that darkness has once again awakened in the world, this soul has become active, and the spirit within her has long since lost the power to put it down.
Only the will of the strongest is resistant to Kinna's gentleness. Men who see her pledge their lives to ensuring her safety from all evil. Her false light is like the sun to them, the last and only source of hope in a cruel and darkening world. Those who do not love her are blind or degenerate. Those who hate her hate all that is pure and clean and beautiful. They will be cleared from her path, and purged from her sight. Churches will burn for the sake of Kinna's innocence; kings will be thrown down, armies raised, fields salted; if this fragile ray of perfection cannot be made to last, then the world does not deserve to live at all.
Kinna's existence is a grim laugh from Chernobog's many graves. As his other servants foster chaos and bloodshed, her beauty becomes all the more alluring, and the numbers of the desperate swell to follow the meaningless hope she provides. Men once faithful to the true light of the Exalted One will fight alongside orcs and trolls chasing some salvation that she cannot offer, and die in the mud still believing that they are protecting the holiness they have ground to dust beneath their heels.
Still settling on art for this char, this one by Alex Chow makes her look a little too evil.
Felt like I should mention I've been lurking ln this since the int check was posted. I already have a character adaptation in mind. It won't take me too long to write it up.
Ah, nice to finally meet you then. I'll look forward to seeing what you come up with. Might you have already joined the Discord under a different username? If not, it'd be nice if you did since most of the talking is going on over there.
@Cyclone, discord link is busted. I might be keen to drop a character. I like the idea of being an evil critter.
Yeah I've been setting the links to expire after a day just because I don't like to leave the door permanently open on a publicly visible page; makes spambots etc. possible. I saw your PM and sent you a new link there already, but I'll post another one here for anybody else out there.
@Cyclone Big negative on that. My discord handle is @Sierra#0637 so its pretty easy to correlate if I'm in a place or not. One of the perks of a relatively standardized internet handle.
Identity: Sol’ Kureth, The Insatiable, The Dark Maw, The Faceless, Lord of Lies, Mage of Darkness, Demon's Wail
Type: Scion
Myth: The notes of Sir Gallof the Old, Gathered from (A long list of sources) and accounts from (a short list of clergy scribes by first and last name) over the past twenty years.
Sol’ Kureth was once a proud and noble dragon lord that worked to oppose the dark lord. What caused his Betrayal is lost to history, but the creatures and horrors raised by his new found dark powers earned him many titles. The most credible rumor states that he was captured by the Dark lord’s forces and corrupted by the magics that they possessed. His actions are accounted for as being one capable of changing to a very repulsive form that resembles a creature well beyond death. His role in the great war was most easily explained as what would be considered a dark cleric. The magics he possessed were often gifted to his followers. The storys tell of their use bringing about ghastly transformations to those that practiced the magics he gifted, corrupting their very souls. The Dark Maw was earned as a title in a great battle sometime late within the great war. The corrupting magic that his followers would practice would corrupt them, but even worse was how the corruption was used. The great abomination would consume his own followers for powerful bouts of magic that could then be leaked to the surrounding lands. This power, much like the rumored corruption from the blood of the dark god, would infect the land and bring about famine and death. The corpses of men who died in these cursed lands would arise, perverted versions of the men and women they once were, to fight at the whim of this insatiable creature.
The goals of this being were never clear, as it seemed that he desired to spread deceit and doubt before acting strongly with force and magic. The only records that surfaced on this matter were a Clergy that held titles speaking of his loyalty to the dark god that he served. There are records of his personal and failed assaults on the clergy of men, and how he attempted to use their dreams to convince noble men to turn on their brothers for nothing more than dark power. As obvious as a trick this would seem, many fell to such temptations, but the lord of light was there to reverse the horrible incantations.
In the few accounts of his physical appearances within the realms of early men, this being took on the visage of a human in the shape of a very disturbing dragonskull donned humanoid. See reference for details, the description will be in chapter seven with several other theoretical forms The Faceless may have used.
Among the most vile of his corrupted magics were what he would do to those he captured. He would break their wills, their bodies and their very souls and bend them to serve the dark god as creatures that they once feared or hunted. Undead abominations that very few records can describe without the danger of madness leaking onto the very pages themselves. It is a dangerous task to record the deeds of one deemed dark, but without their record how could we ever hope to turn away a second coming?
This being was slain near what is now called Skull Island, and its field of bones in the north are where trolls roam. I fear that if an expedition to the field of bones does not occur the Trolls may discover the fallen magics, and should a shaman arise, the Faceless being’s power could be used. I say without a doubt that it would be impossible for this being to be resurrected.
Narrative view…
The wizard had made his way to the darkened bone fields of skull island after many restless nights. He had found several ancient tomes on the power that rested in the bone fields, and with any luck he would leave here with that power. The legends spoke of a great being, a dark god who was destroyed long ago. The dark god’s followers, however, met ends far estranged and left behind powers just as the legends said the forgotten one had left curses upon the world. The Abomination’s power had been all but forgotten, the clergy had seen to it. When the darkness came to an end and the world found ‘peace’ as it was, many scions were hunted down and destroyed.
Or so the churches and knights would proclaim.
This wizard only hoped that the power this ancient being had could, through ritual, be harvested from the beast’s bones. A forbidden tome from a lost ruin near Gold port had sensible information in regards to lifting the holy magics that contained the power within the field of bones. He had purchased another from the darker markets that had led him to the location of this cursed ground, where even the bravest of trolls did not follow him. The book did not do the place justice. Hundreds of monstrous creatures long slain littered the grounds, the ominous skull of a once large dragon was the jewel the wizard had quested for. He began his search, setting up a camp with his spell craft in the silent field of bones.
The first day was like any other, a grey and cloud filled sky pushed cold air across skull island to steal away the warmth of the land and leave it bitter and cold. The book had several warnings within speaking of something called ‘the great enchantment’ and to be cautious when restoring it. The wizard had no intention of restoring any enchantments, his interest was the power within the ancient bones. He began his work searching the sunken plain of decay.
It was after a week of toiling in the great fields that he finally discovered the coveted jewel. The massive skull of an ancient black dragon lay on the ground. The skeleton of the once great dragon was intact, though badly damaged ribs and a large hole in the skull removed any doubts as to how the beast died. Hide still clung to the ribs and the skull in many places, though the smell of rot was absent thanks to the cold. Many other piles of bones lay about the clearing, but the wizard was set on his prize.
He would move his camp closer, setting up shelter in the ribs of a mammoth across the clearing. He would begin studying the bones of the dragon to make sure there were no foul curses or tricks to be placed upon the unwary. His toils began anew, and the process of finding the source of magic in this cursed place had begun in earnest. The Wizard would sleep peacefully knowing he was so close to completing his task.
How unwise it was for a mortal man to wander where even trolls fear to tread, to sleep without company among the ancient dead monsters of a bygone era. His meddling would wake one of the chief servants to the once great darkness that resided here. A great undead wyvern would rear from the mound of bones, forming to completion as its senses could detect a living creature within the bounds of its master's resting place. The creature would take flight, melding with its master’s whim as it looked down upon the landscape with eyeless holes in its head. Spotting the mage, it would observe from the cloudy sky.
The wizard was obsessed with the skeleton, taking notes and samples in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of this ancient power. He failed to notice the darkness above as it blended well with the clouds. He lamented as the days moved one, frustrated that he had come so far to be lost at the very end. The wyrm watched, and so too did its master.
The great abomination heard his pleas, and so used the last of his energy to answer. The small wyrm would land, taking the mage by surprise as a great voice in ancient dialect boomed across the clearing. Bones and dirt alike were scattered as the creature came to a halt. “Old twin legs, why do you dwell within... a field of bones where so many of your kind... have met their end?” The voice was hollow, raspy and close to a shrill.
The Wizard’s arcane eye could see that the power he sought was within the creature, and so he thought to rejoice. However, he was now faced with a new problem. The undead wyvern before him was stained in old blood, weapons protruded from its hide as though they had always been there. Rusted with the futility of long dead knights, or perhaps nothing more than melted snow. “I come seeking the power of the great Abomination!” The wizard needed to buy time to prepare his spells.
“You have traveled... far, and risked your… short… life to merely see the power…” The beast would lower its head, taunt skin popping off its skull to hang freely as the constant stress had finally worked it off. “You… will have a taste… come… touch my skull.” The raspy voice would become gradually slower.
The mage was hesitant, preparing a spell should the need arise to evade the creatures jaws he would hesitantly approach. The creature moved sluggishly, and so the mage would begin to lower his guard as he extended a ring covered hand to touch the bare bone of this wyvern’s skull. Upon contact, the mage would be covered in dark energies. They would swirl around him, flowing into his eyes as he looked around in wonder and awe. “I can see them!... the incantations!” he would proclaim, only moments before the voice spoke clearly in his mind. “Destroy them, and the power will be yours to wield as my herald.” The mage shook, the voice clearly startling him as the tone was not slow or raspy. He looked around assuming he had been ambushed, but there was only he and the bones he touched. He quickly let go of the wyvern and began working, the voices in his mind instructing him in magics long lost. He would take notes, filling in tomes for his own curiosity. The voices in his head cared little, for there was all the time in the world.
Casting the final ritual, the weapon that bound the great dragon skeleton would be revealed, and the wyrm would destroy it with a blast of its fell breath. The Wizard would rejoice, amazed at the power he was witnessing first hand. The books had not been worthless, his trip had not been a waste, his years of studying the arcane would finally lead him to be the greatest Wizard that had ever been!...
The Black dragon’s skull would slowly lift from the ground, dirt and bones alike falling from it as green orbs lit within the eyes of the skull. Flesh would crawl out of the ground, swirling over the bones with a gnarled sound as it began to twist together. Muscle and hide alike would form mangled and corrupted as the magics binding this ancient scion faded, and his own dark powers returned to him.
Soon the mage's wonder would fade, replaced by doubt, before finally fear would set in. The being in front of him was not something he could dominate, it’s magics were older than the ones used to bind him… his spells would be worthless, his knowledge nothing… he would likely be this creature's first meal.
“You have freed me.” The voice would echo in the man’s mind. “You will herald my power into this world as it once was… your ignorance shall be removed, your pathetic life given to me in service… so that you will be worthy of my power.”
The great scion would take the Wizard's body as his own, dominating him completely so that he could begin to rebuild his own strength. The wizard would get what he wished for, but he would not be in control. The powerful being would scour the mortal’s mind, but it was too fragile. It shattered quickly, and soon there was little left aside from magical potential. “A shame… It was too much… Why must humans always remain so… fragile?” The clouds above the field of bone would darken, the holy magics surrounding the island that had long been kept strong were weakened, and with the power flowing back into Sol’ Kureth, he would cast his ancient curses to rend the holy magics from the island.
His head would turn, his body aching is it begged him for new flesh. Fresh on the memories of this man were the trolls of this island. Their regenerative powers would be perfect to help his recovery. They would surely revel at the return of their dark god’s mage.
Updated version, keeping the old one posted.
New one;
Defiler, Dreadmaw, Flesh Demon, Betrayer,
Type: Scion
Myth:
Throc made his way deeper into the dreadfields of Skull island. He had found the ancient stones of power the elder had kept to himself. There were three stones, each filled with a dim purple glow that would occasionally fade to a dark green. The troll accompanying him hummed a tune, grunting as he tried his best to shake the feeling of dread that this place brought.
“Throc, why we go here? There no food, no U’mies to eat eifer!” “Shut…” Throc looked to Ra. “Ra, we go to find the old one. Elder say land is cursed, but Throc have sleep-vision.” Ra, the smaller of the two trolls, was apprehensive. He was a young blood of the tribe, and it was his duty to follow Throc as Throc had followed the Elder shaman. “Me think you drink too much grog-grog.” Ra said under his breath. “You come with so that if I is wrong, you tell tribe what happen.” Throc was resigned to his fate, the fear that every troll had of this land was beside him. He walked with purpose and certainty through the pines to the infamous field of bones. Here, the trees would stop growing in a perfect line.
The field of bones was infamous for its guardian, a large bone creature that killed and ate anything that disturbed it. Trolls were no exception to this rule. Throc walked beyond the treeline without hesitation. Ra, however, was not so eager to throw away his life. Stopping at the treeline, he would whisper loudly to Throc. “You serious! Do not go in there, the bone demon eat you!” “Bone demon? Bone servant. Bone servant bring me to old one. Me use stones to wake old one, win old one’s favor.” “You die! Bone demon no care about rocks!” “Gemstones! Do not-” Ra interrupted, no longer whispering. “Me no follow! Me watch from there!” He pointed at a nearby rise that formed into a cliff. Several sickly trees clung to the top of the rocky face. It was where the tribe leader and the tribe would watch the bone demon kill trolls who had overstepped their place. “Ra, do not run unless you see me die.” Throc turned, walking away as Ra continued to try and convince him to stay.
Ra made his way to the vantagepoint as Throc walked deeper into the cursed lands. Here the ground was as hard as iron, bones littered about loosely would crack and pop beneath the large troll’s feet. Following his vision, Throc removed a shimmering stone from his pouch and placed it in the notch on his club. Making the stones visible was paramount if he was to be successful in reaching the heart of the bone fields. He would also need to follow the stone's light.
Several hours of walking unleashed the true nature of the bone fields. An unnatural wind cut through the land. Throc cursed as he felt the wind cut into his hide like daggers of purest cold. Ice began forming on the loose bits of his clothes and his nose. He pressed on, his obsession with the visions he had been plagued with proving true.
Ra watched as Throcc became smaller and smaller over the hours. He had made it far deeper than any troll had ever gone. The bone demon was nowhere to be seen. Ra cursed Throc’s stupidity, wondering how such a dumb troll could have been chosen to follow the elder.
The stone on Throc’s club glowed as it passed the first mammoth skeleton. Throc’s vision had told him to follow the stone to find the old one, and so he did. The dim green glow signaled the stop of the bone chilling wind that followed him. He traveled into the great bone mounds, where the bone demon was known to slumber. Here, Throc would find a great dragon skeleton.
Ra lost sight of Throc when he moved into the large field of bones. The great skeletons there were of creatures larger than trolls. The bones of creatures here were piled in massive mounds that seemed to be frozen together. Ra waited, sure that the sound of Throc’s death scream would happen at any moment.
The great dragon’s skeleton was separate from the many that surrounded it. It was free of ice and scratches, something many of the bones here were riddled with. A single rib was missing from it’s right flank. Pausing for a moment in awe as the size of this great skeleton, Throc shook his head. He had to follow his vision, if he did not he would not get what he desired.
Throc walked to the gap in the skeleton’s ribs and removed a glowing stone from his pouch. He placed it on the ground, uttering a word of power that he knew nothing about. The stone glowed brightly with a green sheen as it had in Throc’s vision. The troll moved to the great skull of the dragon and placed his club on the ground near the jaw. Throc climbed the skull, pulling the last stone from his side pouch to place it atop the snout. He uttered another word of power, and the stone glowed the same as the other.
Throc used the lower jaw as a foothold to climb down. The troll picked up his club, dislodging the final stone as he moved to face the dragon’s skull from the front. Speaking another word of power, the last stone ignited in a green glow. Throc nodded to himself, lifting the stone to his mouth. He ate the stone, looking to the skeleton of the dragon.
“You… You have returned my power… You will share in… its bounty.” A deep and ancient voice boomed in his head. It was exactly as he had foreseen, the old one was not dead. Throc fell to his knees, bowing to the bones before him. The stones placed among the bones began to emit black tendrils. The ground around the skeleton cracked open. Putrid flesh crept from these small crevices as though the ground itself was some festered wound. The black tendrils formed by the stones began to cling to the bones of the great skeleton, causing this flesh to begin crawling over the long dead beast. The cracks crossed the clearing, traveling from bone mound to bone mound. The ice creaked and moaned as the bones turned into dark tendrils that flowed to the skeleton of the dragon. Flesh twisted and crawled over the skeleton. Muscles formed as flesh flowed between the gaps of the bones. Scales and plates formed as the dark tendrils receded beneath the flesh of the dragon. Great wings lifted to the sky as it stood for the first time in centuries.
Ra watched in awe as the bones vanished to show a dragon had appeared. He would have ran, but he could see that Throc was still alive! The bones that had hidden him were gone. Ra could not believe his own eyes! “Throc was not stupid?” He said to himself.
“Taste what once was yours, Throc.” The mighty dragon lifted his talons, black tendrils flowing from the tips of his claws poured into Throc’s eyes as the troll looked up. Throc cried out in pain, struggling to keep himself from falling over. He saw the memories of the great beast… he saw himself standing in front of an army of Trolls running down fields of men. He saw the rituals his elders had once practiced.
Bones jutted from Throc’s hide as the energies within him transformed his body and mind. He grew, his body strengthened and his own knowledge of fell magic had been re-ignited. The knowledge the elders had lost over the ages was his to command. “You will serve me.” The great voice boomed. “You will lead my creations to claim the land and steal its power.” Sol’ Kureth looked into throc’s mind. The trolls had fallen, the war had been lost. Chernobog was defeated? How could such a thing be?
The lands he had claimed were no longer his own, and their power had faded. They had been reclaimed by the light. Anger filled Sol’ Kureth, his servants had long crumbled and only two remained; this new found troll and the corrupted wyvern. He looked around the wastes, seeing bone and ice were flesh and creatures once gathered. The ground sealed, green light ceasing as his form returned. “I need flesh to craft.” The scion turned his head to the distant cliff, spotting the young troll Ra.
Summer light warmed the leaves and flowers of the gardens at Brookwidth manor. Those days were happy, the happiest of Kinna's life, days her father would spend indulging her when he was not so busy navigating the legal puzzles of presiding over land in three different realms, days her mother's illness did not seem so grave. In those days she was happy to live the life of a child, even attending her lessons with a smile, and the whole of the manor would keep a watchful eye over her, such that no room or lawn of her father's residence would ever be unsafe.
Kinna laughed as she reached her hand into the rushes. The stream trickled almost silently beyond; somewhere a bird was warbling. "Come out! Come on, pleeaase... Oh, don't be like that. You wouldn't do anything."
Her hand emerged. A thrice-coiled adder lay wrapped around her wrist, her hand gripping its tail. A small snake, to be sure; but this was one of the largest of that kind, as long as the girl's arm and then some. Its earth-red eye fixed upon her as it rested its head on her arm, its skin cool, smooth, and enticing as its coils clenched and shifted around Kinna's hand.
The little girl smiled. "You wouldn't do anything."
Indeed, though its grip tightened nervously around the girl as she stood up and marched to the manor, the serpent clung on with a certain sense of calm, visibly aware of the strangeness of its circumstances yet unable to perceive any kind of threat.
"Kinna!" The cry was sharp from the senior laundrymaid. "Kinna, oh- oh, you mustn't play with such a thing! You mustn't!"
Kinna laughed, and the washerwomen began to laugh with her, a little more shrilly. It was one thing for the curious young lady to be brave, but their lives were at stake if she was bitten, and they were right to be anxious. Kinna raised the heavy serpent to her lips and kissed its dappled forehead. One of the maids looked rather faint.
"She's my friend," she declared. "She would never bite me."
There was a moment of quiet. The senior maid smiled, sighing a deep and tired sigh. "Very well, young lady. If your father approves... But put that thing back in the mud soon, won't you? You'll frighten the girls."
Kinna's laugh was as loud and clear as the call of a wren. Her father approved everything.
"I'm going to show it to the whole manor!"
The gathering erupted in impotent protest as Kinna ran away, echoed by a thump that was either a basket or a laundrymaid collapsing. In a moment she was gone.
The Brookwidth manor grounds were not so large, and Kinna came rather close to her stated goal. The maids in the kitchen screamed and giggled through the window. The squires in the exercise yard feigned terror and laughed and pointed dull swords at the thing. The gardener sighed, and waved the girl away with a smile; Kinna's unusual games in the garden were only frightening the first six or so times. Even Adomo Manciora, her father's chief secretary, who quite preferred to set his desk in the sunlight, looked up from his letters and gently chastised her for disturbing him so (and only for that).
The master of horse did not impede her, for all his frowns, and nor did the banner-knight dismounting beside him: Sir Guthcairn, oldest friend of Lord Brookwidth, a man who moved like a stork yet was built like a bull. It was the stablehand, scarred from hard labour, lean and sharp in the eye as only young men can be, that brought an end to her reverie.
"Sire!" The outburst was sudden and aghast, his eyes flashing from the snake to the banner-knight who watched it with unsurprised interest. "Sire- how long has she been touching that thing? It's unclean, sire- for God's sake- it's a serpent!"
"Steady, lad," said his uneasy master, glancing up at the enormous frame of the unflinching knight. "Our lady is Lord Brookwidth's only child. He knows what's best for her..."
"Look at her! By God, man, look at her! No Lord in his right mind would let his daughter carry on like this. Haven't you heard the stories? She wanders alone in the night, she never gets sick, her whole household spares her the rod- now she catches vipers in her bare hands! What next? What happens when she becomes a woman?"
Stunned silence from the stable master. From the banner-knight, nothing.
"Can't you see that she's- stricken? She needs a priest. She needs a priest and the Abbess herself to come and watch over her for a while- no, she needs to go and spend a year in the Abbey with the nuns, that's it. A lady like her needs to be set straight early, or else we'll be left with no less than witchcr-"
Sir Guthcairn stepped forward so calmly that the stablehand did not even pause his tirade, and struck him with his fist.
The man's head snapped backwards with the force of the blow and he toppled instantly, tumbled and crashed into the hard timber walls of the stable. Blood streamed from his nose and his lip, neither of which still held their proper shape. Guthcairn bent over as if picking up a dropped trinket and lifted him by his shirt against the wall, back-handed him savagely, and threw him into the hard dirt outside.
No one moved. The stable master only watched wide-eyed. The snake flicked its tongue. Not even the horses showed signs of unease.
"Master Wilrey, see that you acquire a new stablehand," Sir Guthcairn said softly. He laid a hand on Kinna's back and turned her away from the concussed and drooling man. "Come, my dear. I'm sorry for disturbing you like that. I just can't abide such a foul accusation against you. It would not be right."
Kinna's watery gaze did not rise from the floor, and he stroked her hair as gently as he would his own daughter's.
Welp. I see someone else has already gone for a Wyrmlord archetype. Though I suppose my idea was more a 'rogue being' human/warlock who had an army of wyvern riders. Would that be okay, or are my hopes to be dashed against the rocks?
Most of the stuff I will be winging around are big ole' monsters. The good news if you do decide to make a rogue being along that line is, at least from what I gather, our characters would align well. It could be that your character is more aware of the world/current time, and my character gives you creatures to add to your army in exchange for information and service. Mutual gains and all that jazz.
If none of that is your jam, you can always just use your original idea! My character is more or less an undead abomination in the shape of a dragon.
