[OOC] The Black Prophecy (Dead now; requiescat in pace!)

[Dog]

I'll drop a app soon.

[Cyclone]

@CollectorOfMyst@Forett@Dog

Hey fellas! I don't think any of you have come on into the Discord yet, so I'd like to invite you (and anybody else ut there that I'm overlooking) to come on in.

discord.gg/pFRmAzxy

I made this announcement yesterday on that Discord, but to anybody who isn't in there or who missed it: Oraculum and I will soon start reviewing the character sheets en masse, and hopefully within a few days we'll be able to get the IC started.

[Dog]

Living Sin

Identity: Living Sin

Type: Scion

Myth: Living Sin is hell incarnate. Summoned from Chernobog from an otherworldly plane, Living Sin was promised power beyond belief. All that Chernobog asked from the daemon was its aid in the conquest and subjection of humankind. Living Sin, while suspicious of the deal, happily accepted. Living Sin did not care for the power offered, but for the joy of bloodshed as the byproduct of Chernobog’s Great War. The agony and suffering of humanity were enough for Living Sin to join in the fun. This demon had strength and nightmarish powers. It was a towering, multi-eyed monster of brimstone and fire that walked upon the Earth itself, embodying the image of evil itself as the common folk imagined it.

Chernobog only had enough knowledge to summon Living Sin into this Earth, but the daemon had far more comprehension than Chernobog originally had thought. By the usage of orcs and enslaved persons, the daemon built the Gate of Sin within Cape Rot, far from the reaches of man. A series of magical rituals followed shortly after the initial construction of the gate and true horror revealed itself to the armies of man. Hordes of daemons, both lesser and greater, flooded into the Earthly plane of Outremer and began their slaughter of all that was good. The wicked deeds of Living Sin caught the whole attention of Outremer, especially the Exalted One.

To end this threat and to reduce the fighting strength of Chernobog’s armies, the Exalted One personally brought itself and its angelical allies to the Gate of Sin directly. In two weeks, a struggle occurred between Living Sin and the Exalted One. In the end, the Exalted One managed to seal off the Gate of Sin and banish Living Sin and his army back home. Now, the memories of Living Sin is simply a tale told by drunken men.

[Cyclone]

Right so it's time to begin these formalized reviews. We've already given some feedback to many of you on the Discord channel, but nonetheless we'll still try to reciprocate your time and effort in crafting the CS with time and effort of our own in giving as much useful feedback and honest thoughts that we can, rather than just a flat approval or rejection. So without further ado:

@ZAVAZggg for Tarr'kash

Hider

We’ve already discussed how it’s fine to brush over our general criterion of the myth demonstrating something of what the character looks like, because you intend to reveal that later on as part of your IC storytelling. I do like how your myth here takes the form of a dialogue that actually serves as a sort of introduction for what you’ll be doing IC with this scholar investigating the mine, so you’ve already got an initial plot arc in the works and we know that you’ve got plenty of plans to see it further. All very good.

On its face the “eldritch abomination trapped down in the dark” archetype is a well-used trope and we don’t see any particularly unique spin here, but that’s fine so long as it’s done well and it leads us to solid plot arcs. Not every character needs to have some strange twist, and yours occupies a welcome niche of its own as I don’t think anybody else is focusing on causing insanity and eldritch mutations as a means of their scion exerting power.

I think Tarr’kash will be a good addition to the story, so consider your sheet approved!

@Vec for Gyvressainth

Hider

Gyvressainth is quite the mouthful! And fingerful. Good thing you gave him some easier monikers; we’ll probably all be using those or some sort of abbreviated name, haha. I liked how we got to see some details of what role your scion occupied and where and how it was defeated. Also I’ll reiterate that I think Stonetree Point is a cool place to set up shop and that I think the Paterdomus area will get really interesting with so many people setting up shop nearby.

Hopefully that praise can soften this blow to come: this quote, “ imploding their souls, killing them instantly” raised some alarm bells as it was NOT what Oraculum and I had in mind for the setting. I’ll refer you back to this excerpt from the OP so that you can hopefully realize why:

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…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.

OP

Though it’s perhaps thematically better than just lobbing fireballs like a generic wizard or shooting lightning from the fingertips like Palpatine, at the end of the day imploding someone’s soul is accomplishing basically the same thing, and that’s not how we want magic to be depicted or utilized in the setting.

Fortunately those few words could just be discarded or waved off as that guy talking in your myth not knowing what he’s on about or giving some exaggerated tale. The other things that you bring up are more interesting, but we note that we still don’t really know what ‘soul magic’ is intended to do or what twisting the soul has to do with “twisting his opponents into gross malformations of flesh”. Further explanation into what you intend to do with soul magic and how it works seems needed; ideally you might find a way to work it into your myth there, but if that proves too hard we can just talk about it on the Discord too.

A final point is that you give your scion titles like ‘Manipulator’ but we don’t really see why; Oraculum and I would like to encourage you to explore this insidious and cunning side of the character that you subtly hint at. Breaking the psyche of his victims or perhaps stealing their memories or knowledge (if that’s what you meant when you alluded to him sucking out souls to empower himself) seem like very cool powers for Gyvre. In conclusion we like the themes you’re presenting, but we feel like you’d benefit from honing these ideas down and focusing them a bit more. That might also make Gyvre stand out a bit more from Tarr’kash in what he does.

You’re on the right path; just a few changes and some more info and then I’m sure we’ll feel good about accepting your CS, but as of yet we’re not ready to do that.

@Humble1 for Shiran

Hider

I’m always a big fan of the ‘evil’ or ‘dark and twisted’ nature archetype, and it’s cool to envision that taking place around the Greatwood and Cape Rot. We’re not satisfied with the myth as it is, though. You’ve given us more of a detached description than a narratively told myth as we are looking for in these sheets, and besides we’re not sure about exactly what sort of powers Shiran would have or what sort of things she’d be wanting to do now.

At this point I don’t feel that there’s enough here for me to give you the rubberstamp of acceptance. We need more details and commitment to the sheet, but if you have any questions or would like to bounce ideas or get us to help brainstorming, Oraculum and I would be glad to help.

And of course @Antarctic Termite got accepted earlier today on the Discord. Oraculum and I have nothing but praise for your third CS there pal; it’s honestly better than the one that I made for King Uhtric, haha.

And that’s all for right now, for Oraculum is only a meager mortal and not a mighty scion, so he must succumb to weariness and sleep now. More reviews shall come later!

Those of you who get accepted can repost your sheets into the character tab for ease of reference later. And for anybody that didn’t get approved just now or doesn’t get approved on the first round when we do the pass over your sheet eventually, don’t sweat. A rejection from us is nothing personal; our criticisms may seem exhaustive, but that’s just because we don’t want to waste your time string you along three or four times when we could just tell you all our complaints so that you have a chance to address them in one go. For all our pickiness we’re happy to answer any questions and you’re welcome to edit your character sheets as many times as necessary, or scrap them altogether and start anew if that’s what you’d prefer.

[CollectorOfMyst]

Hey, so this is a work in progress that has basically nothing in it right now, I'm just putting it here because I'm tired and would rather have it out there rather than leave it in my head.

WIP, pls ignore for now

The Wyrmlord, Revon

[+]

Type: Rogue Being

Myth

Around a dying campfire, several soldiers sit. Their limbs are still gangly and awkward, their faces that of fresh youth. Their armour fits poorly, and their weapons are crooked on their belts. Despite the gloom of the fog and the night, their expressions are merry. They laugh and jab insults at one another. (expand on this)
------------------
Once, they say, the Wyrmlord was a boy. A boy like any other in Paterdomus, if a little quiet.

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.

[Antarctic Termite]

whoopsy, this was meant to go in the character section

[DELETED32084]

@Cyclone

Am I on the right track here??

The Orphan Twins

Kade and Kala Foreldreløst

The Orphan Twins

Storm surge lashed the Western Cape, huge plumes of white spray towering into the air as the ocean slammed against great black cliffs with an earth shaking fury. Trees, long bent and stunted in growth by the howling wind, danced and shook beneath the anger of the storm, the rain battering the few leaves still stubbornly clinging to their precarious perch.

Amid it all a single light glowed faintly along the coast, the cliff face flickering steadily to betray the presence of a fire, a lone spot of warmth in a landscape otherwise devoid of life. This was a land the human occupants, known widely as the Clans of Twenty Halls, or more generally as the Slakte, sent their banished to die.

Seated in a deep cave, the entrance protected by a narrow twisting tunnel, were two who had been so banished. The firelight, a glimmer in the dark outside, served to cast a strong light across their living space and grim features.

Kade was the larger of the two, a notably fearsome looking male boasting corded muscle and cruel features. Kala, his sister, was as beautiful as she was fearsome. She too had shaved the sides of her head, the remainder of her red hair falling in a plaited braid to the small of her back. One might have mistaken them for your average Slakte were it not for their extraordinary pitiless black eyes.

Once, many moons ago, they had been frightened children fleeing the burning of their family hall. The only survivors, they had been forced to turn to the Western Cape for shelter for none would take them in. It was assumed they would die in that dark cave at the edge of the world but the Norns move in a mysterious ways and instead of death they found two long teeth placed there long ago by people unknown.

Kala had found them first, the polished black items she at first mistook for sword blades. They fashioned the items into hunting tools and found them unbreakable and forever sharp. Little could they know that they had found the teeth of the Black God.

The Black God, ever present in his artefacts, had found willing hearts filled with fear and hatred. It took little to bring the pair dreams of glory and revenge. For fifteen years it gave them unnatural strength, speed, and endurance, allowing them to survive their savage home and flourish.

Now, as they stared at the black blades furnished into proper weapons, they knew the time had come. They would take what should have been theirs by birthright. Not just the Twenty Halls, but all the lands beyond it, for the Black God had spoken and his chosen would not be denied.

[Dead Cruiser]

The Dark Elf

Identity: Emel Thilverlyg, The Dark Elf, Pariah, The Black Corsair, The Ivory Dragon

Type: Rogue

Myth: Rumor and myth swirls around the shrouded homeland of the Elvish peoples beyond the sea, but almost nothing is known for certain. It is said that they are ageless and immortal, drinking deep from the magic power of their island home, which they guard jealously with ancient and forgotten magics. Those that journey to the home of the Elves never return, and the Elves themselves only venture forth to steal children from their beds, spoil crops, or perform other mischief-- or so it is said. Truthfully, none have seen an Elf in the world since the Black God was sealed away in the Dawn Age, an act some say they contributed to greatly. There is, however, one exception.

The Dark Elf is an outcast among his kind, a hated pariah exiled from their mythic homeland. None can say for certain why he was cast out; some say he was banished for his evil ways, others will claim the Elves hated him for his physical deformity and he became twisted by their mistreatment. Regardless of the truth, the Pariah is an ill omen to all that cross his path. Accounts of this dark wanderer vary wildly as a result of his capricious nature, his behavior frighteningly erratic and mercurial. Most tell of the Ivory Dragon, a grim figure of snow-white hair, flesh the color of bleached bone, eyes red like rubies, and clad in deepest ebon, who sows terror and reaps ruin, eternally stalking the earth in his immortal exile. Sailors tell of a similar specter, the Black Corsair, a phantom of the seas astride a dragon-ship crewed by damned souls that viciously plunders any ships unlucky enough to encounter him, and spares none from a watery grave. In these nightmarish tales, the Dragon and Corsair are both described as a brutal warrior beyond compare, with mastery of swordsmanship, power, and agility beyond that of mortal men. If his martial skills were not enough, he is also master of many ancient and forsaken magical secrets, from the forgotten lore of the Elves, to terrible curses lost since the Dawn Age, as well as binding pacts made with horrible monsters. Worst of all is his black sword, known by just as many terrifying names: Nightbringer, the Mortifier, Ciernehobopryst, Drygioni, and so on. The Pariah's Blade is only mentioned in the darkest fables, and is said to cleave the soul from the body, leaving only a withered husk, and that with every life it claims the Pariah grows more powerful. However, these are just tales told to frighten children...

There are other tales, as well, of the Pariah as the patron of outcasts; protector of orphans, madmen, whores, thieves, lepers, and other misbegotten souls. But surely these legends are only the wishful thinking of the downtrodden.

Any Port in a Storm

The autumn storm battered Kiran and soaked him to the bone; the barrel he called a home offered little shelter from the elements, and he shivered furiously in his sopping clothes. This would be it, this would be the death of him, he thought bitterly. The storm had raged all day, and Maro, the innkeep, had chased him away where he liked to sit and beg under the inn's eave, and so he had retreated to the barrel he slept in under the wharf. The townfolk would probably be glad to be rid of him, he fumed, gnashing what few teeth he had. They had little patience for the old beggar, not since the accident. He had been a sailor once, when he was a strong young man, but he had tumbled from the ship's rigging and fallen on his head, and death did not see fit to take him. Instead the hit had robbed him of his wits, left him prone to blackouts and seizures. He could scarcely find honest work, and the people of the port thought him cursed and bedeviled. They were content to let him die, and soon they would get their wish. He felt his eyelids growing heavy as his limbs grew numb, and blinked slowly as he stared out across the grey, thrashing sea.

When he opened his eyes again, still bothering to do so for reasons Kiran did not understand, there it was. A ship as black as tar, with whipping sails the color of a moonless night, was not even half a league off of the port. He rubbed his eyes, scarcely believing what he was seeing. Had he blacked out, or dozed off? Where had his apparition come from? The black ship sailed through the froth and the battering waves, scarcely avoiding crashing into the wharf itself as it sailed into port. It dropped anchor and lowered its gangplank, and the crew of the black ship came ashore. Kiran watched them, silent and fearful, unseen from his hideaway below the wharf. The ships crew were difficult to see through the rain and wind, but they were an ugly, motley lot. One-eyed pirates, skinless lepers, hunchbacks, freaks, and other human detritus marched through the storm, jostling and shouting at one-another. The last to climb ashore was far different from all the rest: a tall and willowy figure that moved as though there were no wind nor rain at all. He wore pitch-black clothes, but his skin and hair were of pure white, and a heavy sword hung at his side. Kiran could even see that his eyes were red as blood, and he felt like he was being watched, even though the man did not look in his direction.

Despite his fear, the old beggar felt entranced by the mysterious figure, and once he and his crew had marched some ways into town, he followed them surreptitiously, forgetting how cold and wet he felt. He stalked between buildings to avoid being seen, though the black figure never turned his way, he felt as though he had already been spotted and his efforts were meaningless. The crew, black figure at all, entered Maro's tavern, and Kiran crept to the window to observe them further. Surely with such a strange lot in town, his presence would go unnoticed. He saw at once that Maro took umbrage with the stranger and his freakish crew, but the man in black produced a fistful of golden coins, and Maro relented, yet still regarded them warily. Kiran once again remembered how cold he was, and dared to creep into the inn to sit by the fire and observe the stranger more closely; if Maro noticed his presence despite the throng of pirates in his midst, he did not show it.

The pirates barked at Maro for ale and food, and he innkeep obliged them for as long as they kept throwing coins his way. His wife, son, and daughters served the strange crew hesitantly, obviously uncomfortable in their presence. The men did not leer or grope at the women as sailors were often wont to do, but silently stared at them with what looked like the hunger of starving animals in their eyes. Their leader, who Kiran now saw was of such fair skin and fine features that he seemed more like a statue come to life than a man, sipped at a cup of wine silently as his men ate and drank their fill. Kiran rubbed his hands, trying to restore some warmth to his bones, as he watched one of the pirates sidle closer to the man in black. He was a burly figure, possibly a half-orc or some other hated wretch, and conferred quietly with the pale man.

Kiran watched him closely, trying to read his lips. The inn was eerily quiet, and so he caught a few words over the roaring of the fire: "Please, lord, it's been too long. For me and the men both. Please, lord."

The stranger sipped his wine again, clearly thinking over his underling's request. He sighed, waving a hand to the man, and said in a voice as pure and dark as the silence of midnight, "Very well. You have my permission. Let it never be said that I am not a generous master."

The crewman that had begged him seemed to collapse with relief, not moving save to grovel with gratitude at his master's feet. The stranger stood, striding with grim purpose to where Maro stood. Before the innkeep could utter a syllable, the pale man drew the blade at his hip, and cut Maro down with a single stroke. Merely glancing at his sword made Kiran's eyes prickle and his stomach fill with ice. It was a sinister thing, pure black even in the firelight, as though it swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Before Maro's blood hit the floor, his body shriveled and blackened, like an apple that had been left to rot in the sun, and the black sword pulsed like the breathing of a predatory beast, the room seeming to darken as it inhaled.

Shocked, Maro's son wheeled on the stranger, kitchen knife in hand, raised to bury it in the stranger's back. Without turning to face the boy, the man in black reached into his clothes and retrieved something Kiran could not see. As the innkeep's son drew close enough to strike, he threw what he had retrieved into his attacker's face, revealing it to be some strange, ethereal powder. As the boy spluttered and tried to rub it out of his eyes, the pale man made some strange sign with his fingers, pointing at the boy, and spoke words that Kiran did not understand, but felt like knives in his ears to hear them. As he finished, the boy's coughing and spitting turned to gasping and choking, his skin turned grey as slate, and he quickly keeled over, stone dead.

All the while, the stranger's evil crew had taken to butchering Maro's wife and daughters, muffling their screams with steel. They did not yell, holler, or revel in their slaughter, instead merely standing and panting like rabid animals that had just been let loose from their cages. With the women dead, they filed out from the inn and into the town, swords and knives drawn, and from there the slaughter continued.

The pale man did not follow them, instead striding directly over to where Kiran ineffectually hid. He was too frightened to move and so did not resist as the man laid his white, slender-fingered hand on his head. He felt a cold, crawling sensation inside of his skull, as though invisible fingers were prying through his brain. Kiran's eyes rolled back and his body went slack as the stranger's icy mind tore its way through his. Then, as soon as it had begun, it ended, and Kiran looked out on a familiar world with entirely new eyes. The stranger took a knife from his belt, and pressed its handle into Kiran's weathered palm.

"Join your crewmates, Kiran." Said the man, in his voice of sweetest poison. "We will not come ashore again for some time. Enjoy yourself."

Kiran gripped the blade, smiled his toothless grin, and said, "Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

[Frettzo]

HELLO

[Leotamer]

The concept is interesting, but I am not sure if I would fit into the RP so I will lurk a bit. Character-wise, I am thinking of a corrupter/deal-maker type character. He will give you whatever you want, you just have to be slowly mentally and physically corrupted as you do increasingly sinister acts to keep it.

[Cyclone]

@Leotamer

By all means! There's no rush; I think we'll be accepting new applications even after the IC starts (hopefully that'll be in a few days). In the event that you make up your mind to join, DM Oraculum or I and we'll get you a link to the Discord.

[Vec]

Manzallu

Identity (Titles!): Dark Sage, Alchemy God, Betrayer, Eternal Wanderer
Type: Scion

---

Alchemy, the mystical art of transmutation of matter for various purposes; few have shown aptitude in the mysteries of magic, and even fewer could have been said to excel in the study of alchemy itself. It requires diligence, curiosity, a calculative spirit, and – as my late master used to say – whole lot of balls.
– Erst Lorein, Alchemist, Alchemy Essentials

---

He slid down the surface of the locked door with a sigh and closed his eyes, savoring the moment of calmness and quiet. Briefly slipping into a meditative state, he dove into his mind, into the jungle of thoughts and emotions that was his psyche.

“It’s getting better, isn’t it?” He heard a whisper floating around him, faint but clear as it drifted in formless, metaphysical wind before dispersing like it had never existed. He scanned his surroundings, filtering out other emotions and singling out the two he sought out the most. There, like two bright wisps of differing colors, they floated amidst cowardice, tiredness, and thoughts about what he ate for breakfast yesterday.

“Clearer. Aren’t they pretty?” Another whisper. He saw the wind turn to smoke and drift toward the wisps, seizing them for a moment. It was enough for him to capture and grind them down into powder that drifted away with the wind. “Time to wake up now,” he heard, and the elusive sound of chimes roused him from his meditation.

Immediately he clasped his head, letting out a grunt, but still managed to stand up and stumble his way to the bucket of water he kept beside his bed.

“A little to the right, if you will.” With a mental nod, he dunked his head into the ice-cold water. The chill crept up his face to his skull, neck and then the rest of his body, cooling him down. After a couple dozen seconds, he arose with a gasp, sucking in air and sitting back down on a nearby chair. “Quite refreshing if I say so myself… but you clearly have lagged behind on your endurance training.”

“Can you… shut up… for one… moment?” He spoke between breaths at the disembodied voice chattering away inside his head.

“Heh, brat, you are a couple centuries too young to mouth off like that in front of me… but you’re lucky I’m in a good mood today. I’ll have you be eating your words soon enough…”

The reminder of what was to come cooled him down even further than what the water had; this time he could feel the chill to his bones. They were connected in a way that allowed for equal understanding through both words and emotions, and as much as those words might have seemed playful, they were nothing but. With a somber look on his face, the young man stood up and moved to the center of the room where an expensive looking carpet was situated.

He briefly paused as his eyes fell on the sigil of their house woven upon the woolen rug, a spear of light impaling an eagle to the ground, with corrupted, black blood seeping through the cracks. A strange glint appeared in his eyes as a sense of nostalgia overcame him, but he nevertheless steeled himself to move on. He rolled the rug up and to the side, uncovering what was underneath.

He had been working on the thing for some time now, ever since he first contacted the spirit and was given a well of knowledge, knowledge that created a myriad of questions that, for some reason, the spirit refused to answer. “In due time,” it would say whenever he asked, the voice sometimes sounding gruff and bearish, while other times sounding young and playful, depending on its mood.

He had asked if the thing could be inscribed on wood, but he had been ignored. A mental push to remove the flooring had been anything close to an answer, and he had followed it, albeit begrudgingly. After sufficient wood had been removed, he proceeded to scribble away at the stone floor beneath. Even now he could barely make out any meaning from the squiggly lines of the circular formation, but the spirit had informed him that it would be crucial to the procedure he was about to undertake, and so he persisted.

“Yes, just finishing touches now,” the voice echoed in his head, louder and with more eagerness. “Chopped mandragora root, four stalks; Powdered clavicle of ogre, two finger’s width of a cup; pound in a pestle a piece of emerald stone and add it to the mix; last but not least, a half cup of blood from a race other than your own…”

The young man picked out the ingredients as fast as the information entered his head, following the instructions of the voice as best as he could. When the last ingredient was called out, he pulled out a long, blackened bone from within a case. He seized up momentarily as he touched the relic, but the feeling passed just as fast as it came.

As he whacked the bone against the stone floor to break it, he could feel and eerie stillness in his spirit. The voice had stopped whispering to him, but he could feel a strange power superimposed on his eyes, peering into reality through him. The moment the bone cracked open, bluish-red rivulets of blood were released through the fracture, almost dripping down on the floor, messing up the formation.

“Careful, you fool…” The voice was heard, the hint of anger not escaping the young man’s senses. “Take one half and scrape the marrow into the holder, along with all the blood that is there. Then proceed to mash everything into a fine paste.”

He did as was instructed, and the end result was exactly what he had expected: strange and magical. The blood had some weird interaction with the strange mix of herbs and powders, fizzling on contact before settling down, and after the mixing it had turned a cloudy orange. Faint light was emitted from within the holder as he dipped a thin, vair paintbrush into the mixture and started painting on the lines of the inscription.

“Perfect. Now, remove your clothes and sit in the middle of the formation.” The voice almost commanded him now, but he did not mind as much; the whole process had worked him up, eliciting a certain kind of nervousness inside of him that he had never felt before. He placed the tools on a stool near him and tossed his clothes before stepping into the circle.

“Assume cross-legged position. Arms loosely situated on your knees. Close your eyes. Now this is the last, but most crucial part. Are you ready?”

Was he ready?

Why was he doing this again?

He thought back to the carpet with the house sigil, and something deep inside him stirred. In a flash, a calming wave washed over him, shutting down anything that was about to emerge. “Control yourself lest you want to die a premature death.”

Yes, this was not the time for second thoughts. The voice had warned him that in doing this, he was essentially falling in line with the Dark God and his underlings, for this was magic forbidden by the Church of the Exalted One.

With a final nod, he gave the go to proceed.

“Very well. I shall now proceed with activating your channels. Do not move. Maintain a meditative state at all times. See you at the other side, Arwen.”

And then there was pain.

And darkness.

@Cyclone Second time 'round. Let's see what fishes we catch.

[Leotamer]

Trying to have something down to be a bit more concrete than my ramblings of thoughts:

Abbot Cucaniensis

Name: Abbot Cucaniensis, Cocaigne, Luilekker

Type: Scion

Myth

Two apprentice clergymen were cleaning a forgotten wing of a temple, when one of them, exhausted with the labor of scrubbing the stone floors, walked into the room furthest down the hall. The other quickly followed him. The room was sparsely decorated, except for wall scrolls inscribed with holy prayers and warnings against the temptations of evil and a pedestal which had a cage that covered the top of it and was bolted into it. The one who had gave chase half-shouted, "You aren't suppose to be in here. If you leave now, then you maybe you will be forgiven for your lapse of judgment."

The other walked closer to the pedestal, within the cage was a old servant's bell, "They said we should clean everything on this wing. This room is on this wing." his expression rather smug.

Looking concerned, "This room is different. Did you not listen when they told the story of the last person to ring that bell? How he ended up slaughtering everyone who approached his village, bandit, merchant or knight alike, even after everyone had ran away or died?"

The other one laughed a bit to himself, "I had that one, and the one where the man grew scales and whose breath burnt down half a country-side? Even if half of the stories are true, this probably some fake. Besides, they even took the ringer out."

The other apprentice was interrupted before he could form a thought by a older cleric entering the room, "It seems like I can not entrust you to clean a simple hall without disobeying an order. Those stories are truer than you think." he said, making a few hand motions and silently chanting a prayer to him, "Cucaniensis is a real demon, and while he no longer walks this earth, his temptations linger. His whispers must have certainly convinced you that walking into this room would be a funny joke, and so I must forgive you as more valorous men have been fooled by his honeyed poison." he said, his glare narrowing on the two apprentices. They both remained silent, and his expression softened.

The elder continued, "The stories that you have heard, tragic as they may be, are among the lucky ones of those who had an encounter with the demon for they encountered him only once. He sees mortals are mere toys for his own amusement, but the ones must cursed are those who gain his interest for he is fickle and possessive creature who gains a perverse joy from the taking the purest aspect of a person and twisting it to serve his dark master.

He appears as a fair-haired men with pleasing features, a façade which lures his victims into compliancy. He has on occasion called himself Abbot, a grim but poignant reminder of this churches greatest failure. Normally, he grants a person a boon in exchange for small acts of evil, but occasionally they are one in the same. The story is to long and gruesome to tell now, but he had took a zealous man in service of the exalted one and had him slay more holy men than some of the more well-known of monsters and it started with him believing that he knew the doctrine better than his elders and that he should be allowed to do as he pleased so long as he could twist words to make it sound just. Now, you two should reflect on that in your rooms and should refrain from acting on baser thoughts if you wish to continue to serve the one most exalted."

[Fetzen]

Vaught The Mad

Vaught

Hider

Identity

• Vaught The Great
• Vaught The Mad
• Slayer Of Portus Cruor

Type

Rogue being

Myth

"So I'd like to tell you a little story about Portus Cruor. Yes, that gritty place of unlimited filth in the south nobody likes to talk about. Not even the people living there like to talk about the place for doing so isn't good for their reputation or their 'professional' success in most cases, so don't worry if you've never heard of anything like this before. It's not a very well known story and I can certainly say that because I myself stumbled upon it in the archives only recently."

The magister and his student sat opposing each other, only separated by a small round table covered by an unorderly arrangement of parchments and a few burning candles.

"So we have Portus Cruor where no honest nature wants to go to, and also there we have Vaught, a boy who's allegedly been picked up by some scoundrels sailing along the western coastline of The Greatwood. Those pirates... it's not enough for them to harass innocent seafaring merchants for their goods, but some of them don't even stop from human trafficking. Their miserable city has a rather constant need for slaves as its inhabitants treat them far less well than those of... erm... here, for example ?

Vaught, looking like someone who had not even finished growing into an adult, was put into the pits. That's what they call their arenas down there where they let people fight against each other for public entertainment. Some of those are paid and more or less professional individuals, but most are captives who are forced to fight for their lives and seldomly make it higher up. They are given promises of freedom and coin should they reach the top, but of course the owners of the pits make sure that they get the most out of their greatest assets before that.

Vaught however... he was a lucky one. Completely inexperienced, but showing enough talent not to be put into an impossible situation by his owner at the early stages. People could watch him making his first kill by barely using more than a stone, but soon they saw him wielding a wooden club, then a simple axe and ultimately sword and shield. I have to admit that I'd be amazed if that would be one of my own childs, but fortunately we don't do such cruel things like stealing people up here.

So Vaught rose to be one of the major attractions of the pits, seeing great bloodshed several times a month and preparing to defend his own life during the remainder of the time. Whether he ever started to like it ? I don't know. It's certain however that he adapted, becoming a more and more cruel and ruthless man himself both in and outside the arena at least as far as we know. People also noted that he bulked up dramatically until he, at some point, outright dwarfed his opponents. Spectators started speculating whether the owner of the place had hired an alchemist to mix some wicked substances into the man's food, because, you know, he also grew heads taller than the others.

Then, only a few years into things, came what my sources often refer to as 'the night of the red ring'. A simple summer day with swealtering weather as its typical for that part of Outremer. The time of the year when everyone who can stays inside at day and starts enjoying himself in the cooler evening hours. The pits were set for a tournament that would include only the best of the best and go on for days, a real eyecatcher for the whole of Portus Cruor in the light of countless torches and a full moon.

Vaught was there as well, but from the very moment he stepped onto the gray sand there was that uncertain feeling of something being different. Maybe it was an illusion caused by the dim and irregular lighting, but his eyes didn't seem brown anymore. They appeared red: not that kind of passive red of an albino, but a wicked red that almost seemed to glow."

The magister smiled, almost laughing slightly as he waved his hands as if to stave off something.

"Oh yes, I know what people with too much imagination like you might think: The full moon, it certainly has something to do with it! All those superstitions common people like to stick to... No no, trust me: I'll come to the point where you'll see that it's not what you might think it is!

So, where was I ? Ah, yes, when Vaught entered the arena. Now of course he had sustained a lot of injuries in past fights just like everyone else, but as he stood there with nothing more than a piece of fur and an improvised girdle covering his hulking body people started to wonder whether they simply couldn't see them or if there indeed were no more scars on the man's skin. And the gray sand beneath his feet ? Soon after the intial fight had begun it wasn't gray anymore, but red and wet by anybody's blood. And when I say 'anybody' I mean 'anybody' because Vaught didn't stop after he had gutted every man and woman he was supposed to kill, but he then climbed over the high metal fence and started a massacre on the stands. Just like in every arena they were arranged in a large ring, hence the name of the occasion."

The student's eyes widened as he continued listening, now seemingly more attentive than before.

"You think he must have been killed within seconds by some guards ? That there must have been preparations in place just in case one of those highly trained and imprisoned killers would go crazy just like that ? You're right about about the latter, but not about the former. Vaught went beyond 'good' when people saw how arrows and bolts shot at his naked skin could slow him down, but not stop his murderous rage until everyone was either dead or had managed to flee. Vaught escaped from the pits and continued on his path through the narrow streets and alleys. At some point they just gave up pursuing him, probably when it became evident that he wanted nothing but leave the damn place.

I can see you wondering why I'm burdening you with all that nonsense. Well... that's because I'd like to add some more literature to your workload, but not without at least some actual motivation to read it. So may I hand you this pile of my personal handwritings you've been sitting in front of for the whole time ?"

The old magister leaned back in his chair, just looking at his student as the latter slowly picked up the parchments in front of him, each of them filled to the brim with a dense mixture of letters and drawings.

"I want an independent opinion about my work so far. I feel like my writing style might be a bit too complicated, but the matter is serious: Did you ever hear the term 'primordial chaos' before ?"

The student shrugged his shoulders, looking at the magister whom had invited him into his personal office so unexpectedly with curious eyes.

"It's about metaphysics so to speak. A theory one of my predecessors here has put up but which has never received much attention for it's quite abundantly abstract and speculative. It's about how, between gods and demons, the world itself has come to be. I never gave much about mere speculation, but once I stumbled upon this Vaught I remembered that, at some point, the author of this theory starts arguing that this process of the world's becoming might not yet have reached completion and that some remainders of this 'primordial chaos' might still exist in the most unexplored corners, just never having transitioned into a state we humble humans refer to as 'matter', 'magic' or just somehow meaningful for us.

But what would happen if one bit of this 'chaos' took one of us humble humans as a blueprint for itself to finally gain consciousness, but only to end up surrounded by cruelty without mercy ? Wouldn't it do everything to defend itself before it's newfound shape is destroyed and while it still is flexible enough to assimilate and incorporate whatever kind of improvement it can find that could help with that ? I'm talking about Vaught, because let's not forget that The Greatwood is one of those most unexplored places we know of. Who knows whether this process of continuous adaptation and improvement had already reached its limits when he fled from Portus Cruor or if said city has only witnessed an intermediary stage of it ?

I'm convinced that Vaught's mind might already have been set much earlier, but that it was only this night when he realized that he couldn't learn anything from the pits anymore. Now it's just me and my ramblings of course, but I think we had a chance to become friends with something great and unique, but instead we trained it how to view us as enemies that need to perish at all costs. It all happened almost two centuries ago, long before my time, but the thought still hurts."

[Cyclone]

Round two of the CS reviews is here.

@Forett for Sol’Kureth

Hider

So earlier today I remember we had a conversation trying to discuss and define what sort of powers your scion would actually have, and I think you made the decision to inch away from the necromancy a bit and more towards the corruption of the land.

It doesn’t look like you’ve gotten a chance to update your CS to clarify this yet. Based on what we talked about I think that your ideas and general themes will be acceptable though, once you’ve ironed it out here. Until then I’ll hold off on giving a final evaluation.

What I will say right now is that besides that, I can see some other cleanup that’s necessary.

The formatting of your sheet is somewhat confusing because the ‘Myth’ at the top isn’t the sort of narrative myth that we were looking for; you don’t get into that until a ways further down, and then you launch into it suddenly without much transition or separation from the rest of the sheet. I’d recommend solving this by just axing the entire top portion altogether and then just trying to put the relevant and important details into the narrative myth somehow, because it reads more like a bio. Alternatively you could just put the top part that’s more descriptive than narrative into a separate hider as some others have done; see the ‘Lore’ hider in Termite’s post on the characters tab of this thread for an example of this.

As far as the narrative goes, you start off strong enough (it’s odd that a human is running around on Skull Island by himself, but you at least partially explain that by saying where he’s at not even the trolls like to go) and my obligatory little nitpicking is just that you say Gold port instead of Goldport. But those things in the beginning are minor issues; much bigger is that around halfway through you switch from a more conventional past-tense narration into almost nonstop usage of the conditional tense, and I’m not quite sure why. You go from saying he did X, he saw X, to Y would happen, he would say Y, etc. Overusing the conditional tense like that shouldn’t be done on the IC and so I’d like it if you’d alter that part of your myth accordingly.

@Pagemaster for the Orphan Twins

Hider

I’ll start by giving you praise for the worldbuilding done here, giving the Slakte their demonym and establishing some of their culture with this exile and banishment (both of which seem fitting for the Danish vibe that Oraculum had when writing out that part of the world).

Beyond that the myth is rather basic, giving us just what information is needed and not much more. That’s fine though; I really do like that you’re doing things in Twenty Halls and I think the theme that you’re going for is a good one with lots of potential too. Hopefully the short myth just means you’re saving much of your storytelling for the IC.

For suggestions I might establish early on any additional powers or strange properties that their artifact weapons possess -- I know you already said they’ve granted the twins enhanced physicality and that they are sharp and unbreakable, but as pieces of the Chernobog’s body they could do so much more than that. In particular I’d like to see some of their corrupting effects, because their power certainly wouldn’t come free of consequences, but I think from your Norsca inspiration that you’re probably thinking along the same lines as me.

Sheet’s accepted!

@Vec for Manzallu

Hider

Poor Arwen can’t get a break, can he?

We discussed the alchemy things that you wanted to do a bit. Even though we don’t really see much of the potential of these powers in your myth because this possession of Arwen’s body is the only example shown, I’m not too worried. The nature of alchemy that you show means that it should fit in well with our conception of magic for this setting, where ritual and preparation are crucial elements, even if it does end up having potentially really powerful effects.

The most substantial complaints I can give are that we don’t really know where this is taking place (and by extension where you intend to start out) or why your character has the title ‘Eternal Wanderer’, but those things should be easy enough to depict IC and they’re not very crucial at the end of the day.

You don’t get to escape the fate of having me wag a finger at you for having a few typos, but the prose and storytelling was good and this sheet is definitely acceptable.

More to come tomorrow, when I can rouse my henchman Ora!

[Legion02]

Allura the War-maiden

Identity: Allura, the War-Maiden, Blade-siren
Type: Scion
Myth

Curse of the Ganden Abbey

“Sister Joyce, I would say it's a surprise but then we would both be lying.” Said abbess Mathilda. She put the book she was reading down and peered through her spectacles at the young sister entering her office. The contrast between them could not be greater. Where the abbess looked old but wizened and stern, sister Joyce was barely twenty-five and radiated a restless energy. It was a shame she was sentenced to the Ganden Monastery.

“You can’t keep making me scrub floors!? Is this how you all live!?” Sister Joyce yelled out. “Just praying and scrubbing and eating and- Aargh!” She burst out in anger. The abbess had seen it a hundred times over. Young girls doomed to the dullest life possible. It rarely worked out. Still, she had vowed to help them when she took up the oath of the abbess.

So she got up and took a torch from the nearby barrel. “Come with me.” The crone said as she moved past sister Joyce. The two of them walked through the truly ancient corridors of the monastery. It was littered with derelict furniture. Some of it was half chopped up, ready to be thrown in the fireplace for some warmth. There were cobwebs everywhere. A great many doors in the abbey were locked these days but at the end of a corridor, the abbess opened one that looked almost exactly like any other. Except behind this one was not an abandoned room but a stairwell going down. The two of them followed it down to the oldest depths. Somewhere along the way, the abbess had lit her torch. Yellow firelight burned away the darkness, but a place like Ganden Monastery could throw long shadows.

Eventually, the two of them reached their destination: the lowest crypts. Sister Joyce felt a cold sensation creep up her spine. There was something wrong here, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. The abbess gave no indication that she felt the same chills. They marched on. Until the stairs ended in front of a lonely hallway. The abbess motioned sister Joyce to come closer to the wall of the hallway lit by her torch. It showed a relief sculpture. It was old and weathered and showed a row of knights with their swords raised and shield held firmly in front of them. Sister Joyce could just recognize the carved halo around their heads.

The abbess noticed her looking at the halos. “Once those halos were adorned with gold.” She said. “These were the champions of the Exalted One. They fought the darkness and slew demons. Nothing could stand against them.” She moved her torch to the left. Revealing the horrors that had fallen before these champions upon the mid-relief. There were horned devils and brutish orcs but they had all fallen to the ground. “On the battlefield, they could not be beaten. So the Dark One send something else.” The abbess said as she moved her torch to the right. The fire burned away the cobwebs revealing a knight carved like the ones from. But now he was on one knee and without a halo. He was kneeling before a woman dressed in a cloak and long flowing hair. In her hand she held some sort of crystal with beams radiating from it towards the knight. “It is said that she sang to them, and with her song she cursed the Exalted One’s champions and took their souls.”

“Lies!” A hissing voice whispered in the back of sister Joyce’s head. She looked back to see where it came from. She saw nothing but more reliefs upon the walls. There was not even a breeze down here.

The abbess saw her turn. “Ignore the voice, sister.” She said, before following the wall and the story it told. “She took their souls and corrupted them. They became stronger, yes but also colder and more menacing. When she was done with them, these champions were but pale reflections of their true selves. She put them into new bodies of black flesh, doomed to fight against the one they worshipped.” The relief showed the same woman holding up the same crystal. Its carved rays now touching something that looked human but was far too big to be one. It wielded a great axe and stood against a score of haloed knights. “Every champion sent after her was either killed or cursed. Until-“ The abbess continued on. Following the relief upon the wall further. “-the Martyred Lady. She was the wife of one of the champions that was cursed. She and the other grieving widows marched upon the Dark One’s servant with her lantern in hand.” And the relief did show this. “They surrounded her stronghold and prayed to the Exalted One. The servant attacked. Expecting an easy slaughter. But when the blood of our Martyred Lady was spilled the curses were lifted. The tears of the widows and the blood of our Martyred Lady broke the power of the servant and rendered her defenseless. But no prison could ever be strong enough for her and death was not as certain to her as it is to us either. So she was imprisoned here. Not with iron shackles and steel bars, guarded by men armed with swords. She is kept here and surrounded by just us.” The two of them reached the end of the hallway. Both of them now stood in front of a simple door. It looked old but still sturdy.

The abbess turned towards her wayward pupil. “That is why we are here. Not to seek glory. Not to be known. We do our duty as the Martyred Lady did her duty. We pray and scrub the floors because that is what is keeping that monster locked up.” The abbess paused for a minute then said, with a calmer tone: “I hope you will start taking your duties seriously now.” With those stern words spoken, the abbess turned on her heel and walked away. Leaving Sister Joyce in the lonely hallway. Sister Joyce was young and curious though. Despite the history lesson she couldn’t help but feel the siren song of curiosity as she rested her hand on the wooden door.

“Is this the life you desire?” The ethereal whisper said. “You will live for another forty years perhaps. You will toil in gardens for your own food and then you will die alone and forgotten. How many graves count your cemetery? Go and see how many of them still bear readable names. Is this your fate, Joyce of the young House of Clarfield? Or will you etch your name in history? I can remake-“ The whispers were cut off when sister Joyce pulled her hand from the wood. Every sane fiber in her body feared those whispers. As fast as she could she ran up the stairs again. Away from that crypt. The distance never lessened that lingering sense in the back of her mind though.

[Oraculum]

Time for another round of reviews! Most of these were written in a groggy haze, so if you see anything less than cohesive in there blame it on that (no, that doesn't mean the verdicts are negotiable).

@Fetzen for Vaught

Hider

A solid sheet overall, and a good showing of the kind of writing we can hopefully expect in the IC, which I personally find every bit as important as the character being described. There are a couple of typos scattered about (like "childs"), but that's a very minor thing, and it's clear they are exceptions more than the norm. I did spot an anachronism, though ("blueprint").

Regarding Vaught himself, the information given looks enough to make a start. There's no clearly spelled out motivation for him to do much beyond staying out of the way at the start, though I gather the hint about him not having come into his full potential yet might be a hook. It's not made fully obvious either what his abilities are, but the scene gives a good enough idea.

The one thing which stood out as a bit odd to us was the concept of the primordial chaos as a universal force. Ultimately, though, it's a minor concern, and wholly fine as some character speculation. Consider the sheet accepted.

@Sophrus for Mortan

Hider

Short and to the point. I must admit that when I thought up the myth section I didn't expect anyone to write a poem for it, and it's been a pleasant enough surprise to see someone come at it from that angle. The meter is a bit off in a couple of places, but I'm not that pedantic that I'll make a problem of it. The only thing that I'd say looked off was that stray "account by a priest" caption which seems a leftover from a previous version; the poem reads more along the lines of a folk nursery rhyme.

Otherwise, we've already discussed your starting plans and other things, and everything that's needed seems to be set. Feel free to post it over in the character tab.

@Leotamer for Cucaniensis

Hider

As I think I might have mentioned before, I like the idea of a tempter spirit disguising itself as a priestly figure - the "devil in the nunnery" and his ilk are a classic of medieval folklore, and it wouldn't feel out of place in the setting. With that said, I find there is room for improvement in the execution. The tone of the myth feels somewhat like a flat description camouflaging itself as a narrative; I understand the intent of the elder monk is to be didactic, but he does not impart much of a personal flair to his words, making it feel at times like he's blankly reciting facts.

Another problem is that it's not made clear what exactly it is that Cucaniensis does. It's said he grants boons to people, but not how or of what kind. That sort of detail is important and worth hashing out on the Discord if the parameters and constraints of the power can’t be clearly established in the myth. Similarly we’d like more details concerning the toll he takes on victims, and the anecdote given is rather confusing as to his role in the debacle. 

There are likewise a number of typos to be fixed, and some consistent punctuation issues (notably with the dialogue punctuation, where a quote ending in a period is followed by "he said"). Overall, the sheet would need some more polish before it can be accepted.

@Legion02 for Allura

Hider

The first thing that springs to my eyes about the sheet, regrettably, is that there are scarcely any complete sentences in it - truncated fragments abound, beyond the point where it could be waved off as a stylistic choice. Conscious effort would be needed to improve the flow and grammar of these sentences to make them reach the standard of quality that we want for the IC. There are also some missing articles, which makes the whole look even less cohesive, the tense shifts from past to present at some points, and there is one sentence that reads as something of a statement yet ends with a question mark.

As for the character herself, some more elaboration on her activities and powers would be welcome. Right now, it's uncertain what she does with the souls she collects and for what purpose she does that. Her background also implies that peaceful demeanour can combat or weaken her somehow, which is an interesting detail and worth elaborating on more.

In its present state, the sheet does not unfortunately warrant acceptance, and some fairly thorough corrections would be necessary to bring it up to standard.

More to come when we're out of Morpheus' embrace.

[Lauder]

I will get a CS up as well.

[Tuujaimaa]

Don't drink the water, kids.

Máthair-Amaidí

Identity: Máthair-Amaidí; Aekashirillion, the Thousand Maws; That Which Sleeps Below; The Shacklewrithe. These and many more were the titles once possessed by great Máthair-Amaidí when they writhed upon the surface of the world, and before the Móreanach was cleansed and shattered as it is today.

Type: Scion

Myth: “In times of yore, the land of the Hundred Lakes was not always as it is now. Long before the White One began their crusade against the forces of darkness, when the Great Sire lived and breathed still, the Hundred Lakes were a single fetid pool of brackish and maddening waters. Legends still live today about the foulness of that land and its tainted waters that drove all not aligned with darkness to desiccation and delirium, the cause of rotten harvests of fish and kelp--but that is another story for another time. All that must needs be mentioned here is simply that the abominable place once existed, and housed within it one of the Great Sire’s foul brood. It was a disgusting and scale-ridden thing, with great tentacles and even greater mouths--and it hungered not for flesh, but for sickness!

The White One’s crusade came for the Móreanach and its oozing, pustulent waters when the Great Sire fell, and the tendrils of miasma that seeped from its gaping maw led them to this place of kindred squalor and obscenity. Weakened still from their narrow victory over the Great Sire, the crusade deigned not to attempt to sacrifice more noble lives but instead to cleanse the taint from this place and dedicate it to the provenance and sustenance of men.

Though rite and prayer, through contrivances mechanical and metaphysical, the Móreanach was purified into the Beatus Aquas, and upon it settled the stock of crusaders brave enough to eke out a living in this once noxious and inhospitable demesne--and the being that thrived within it was banished deep below the ground where its taint would be sealed away for an eternity--so long as the blessed waters of the great lake sat atop it like a seal of wax.”

“Hold, messere--’like a seal of wax’? Is that the line you’re going for?” came the response from a filthy little scamp, shuffling about amidst the muck and brackish water that even now threatened to encroach upon their small campfire.

“Well, lad, if you don’t like my story ye can scamper back off into the bloody fens and see what awaits ye!”

Silence, except for the buzzing of gnats, settled over the ersatz camp.

“But lo! A great calamity struck this world, and as if releasing a heaving sigh the earth shattered and twisted under its own force and the great lake was split into the Hundred Lakes that we know today. But now that the blessed lake is gone, and the waters have seeped into the soil all around the land, what is there to keep that foulness bound? What force exists that might stay what lurks below..?”

The dishevelled man in sopping rags finished his story with great, sweeping motions of his arms, and as he leaned in towards the grim illuminations of the sputtering flames pustules of ooze and pus made themselves plain upon his face, and his breath hovered in the air like a reeking cloud of filth. With a single stroke of his hand upon the little scamp’s face an oily, black streak emerged and was soon absorbed into their skin.

“She waits for us below. You see it now, yes?”

They both wept black tears, and cried out in rapturous agony.

[Lauder]

The Matron of Orcs

Batuul

The Matriarch of Orcs, The Slaughterer of Ten Thousand, The Unifier of Fell, The First Warlord, The Only Warlord.

Type: Scion

Myth:

The seer moved to the gates, clutching his chest as rain hit his cloak, moving with great pain gripping him with each fraction of inch that he had to step. The guards, at first, had refused the pleas of the madman, calling him a farce until he threatened to have judgement set upon them by the Exalted One for refusing an old man’s dying wish to have his words heeded by the duke of the lands he walked upon. Beyond the one set back, the old seer was brought to the duke, leaning heavily on his staff as he finally could speak about his vision.

The duke looked upon the man, uninterested that some seer from the far reaches of his domain to deliver some pointless drivel. His ancestry had gone to him, heeded his words, but they were gone and none of the evil that the seer had predicted then had come to pass. Regardless, the duke would listen for even then he could hear his father urging him to have his future read by the seer, though, he had refused to sit through some divination at the time. At least now, he could have it done in the comforts of his home.

Yet, the seer seemed to forget his place as he did not even bow to the Duke, though no mention was made of it for the old one seemed desperate and on an edge that seemed to lead to certain death. It was the words of the Seer that chilled the entire room, breaths becoming visible.

“Here comes the Matriarch of Orcs, she who helped birth the orcs into being and she who felled armies of man on her own. It is she - she who those beasts call their progenitor! She who molded them into the warriors that had once toppled kingdoms and empires with their might, m’lord! She comes, I have seen it!

Here comes the Slaughterer of Ten Thousand, she who laid low the first wave who sought to bring about an early end to Chernobog’s reign and she who routed armies of man without aid - without rest or respite. Batuul, the only other personally brought low by the Exalted One! He bound her mountainous strength to a plane of chains, capturing her and making sure she’d never see the taste of battle again! But those chains - those blessed chains have been worn away! M’lord, she comes with the storm - her release will shake your family to the core, even your lord’s family!

Here comes the Unifier of Fell, she who ushers in a symbol for orcs to rally behind and there is no other warlord who does not pray for her blessing to lead the orcs to victory, her strength and brutality near unmatched! Even Trolls and Ogres would respect her rule, even they shall follow her, as such even Batuul is a name uttered by those who wish to show strength and bring about slaughter to the forces of man! She will bring a wave of death, destruction - a crusade to match her master’s rage! Batuul seeks to make this an Age of Fell, an age where man will little more than slaves for the hunched beasts!

Here comes the First Warlord, she who was first crowned by Chernobog to lead his armies to victory in battle and she who first brought about the destruction of the first great kingdom in her crusade for Chernobog. It is she who stands above her fell brethren, her imposing form known to all on the battlefield as she wrought the destruction of many champions and their hosts. No knight, no champion, no commander will see her undone, no mortal man could lay her low and that is a fact that cannot be changed, m’lord! Her shadow will loom above this castle! Her roar will shatter your windows, shake the very hall to its foundations!”

The seer fell upon his knees, his whole body shaking as his head snapped back, eyes rolling back in a sudden motion. Another vision gripped the man, but now the whites of his eyes were replaced by a black darker than the one who shan’t be named. A feeling of fear gripped the room as guards looked to each other, unknowing of what to do as a mad cackle overtook the man.

”For she is the only true ruler of their lands! For it is she who claims to be the Only Warlord of the orcs!

The Only Warlord who has brought forth true glory for Chernobog!

The Only Warlord to make kings and champions into trophies!

The Only Warlord to be personally brought into chains by the White God!

She comes, I can feel it even now! The matron of the orcs has broken her binding, her strength has overcome them just as she has overcome the mountains of men sent to take her head, m’lord. Batuul is coming, I can see her form towering over her kind, standing at the height of a troll- neigh, standing greater than a troll! I can feel her fangs stabbing into my chest, they are as large as my head, m’lord! Batuul comes m’lord! Her radiance, I can feel it! Slaughter comes for us all and you will all meet the lick of her strength!”

The great seer’s breath grew ragged, clutching at his chest as the storm grew harsher outside the castle, the thunder pounding in his mind as his laughter was thrown into a fit of coughing. The guards in the hall continued to look worriedly to each other as the seer had spoken the name of the only being whose name should never be uttered. Yet, the duke looked upon the seer who was gasping for air as he spouted his prophecy.

”She comes for you first m’lord! For it is your ancestors who had brought their plight to the Exalted One and I foresee that she will wrap her chains around your neck! Warn the others, m’lord! I beg of you to- to…”

There were no more words to be said as the seer choked upon the air, falling to the ground as lifeless as the cold floor itself. Silence fell about the hall as the duke rose from his throne, looking to the lifeless corpse and then to his guards, then a clap of thunder - more sounding of a distant roar than true thunder - rattled the castle shaking the structure itself. She had broken free. They could all feel it.