Ashgan

Divinity Lost

This sounds absolutely fantastic. There is a gaping hole in my heart that yearns only for Lovecraft; please help me fill it ;) (And props for linking to Cryo Chamber - they're amazing!)

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

Oi, it's not a post but I did finally write up that sea deity I was mulling over since a while. Maybe someone out there is willing to believe this hogwash. :D

Meroe

Meroe

The drowned goddess, the wife of sailors

The tale of Yorven, Ormen and Grom, and the tragedy that befell the race of gods at the beginning of time, is well known to the northlanders. A lesser known story, mostly told in hushed voices among superstitious seafolk, continues the tragedy even farther, for it is said that Ormen was wed to Meroe; a pale, morose goddess who was the only one besides Ormen’s own brother who could feel any love for the lord of death. It is unclear if she existed outside of Grom’s family or if she is a sibling of some kind, but everyone agrees that, when her husband was struck down to preserve mankind, she tied her foot to a rock and hurled it – and herself – into the roiling seas out of grief. But a goddess is not so easily slain, is she? She did not drown in the tides as was her want, and sank to the very bottom of the lightless abyss. Perhaps it is something she found there, or simply the nature of spending eternity chained to the tenebrous bedrock of the ocean, but they say that Meroe went… mad, madness borne from something more than simple grief. A madness so profound it changed her into something divine – no more.

Sailors beware when they hear an eerie chant over the biting wind and sloshing waves, for to be called to Meroe’s realm is worse than death. If at all possible, a prisoner or slave is gladly sent to the depths as sacrifice to appease the mistress of the sea and superstition holds that those who do will sail smoother waters. Listen in at a portside tavern and you might hear some men claim they have seen her pale blue face beneath the water, just besides their ship, following, beckoning, smiling invitingly. It is a vicious trap.

In her great house at the bottom of the sea, on a vast plateau that sunlight has not caressed since the dawn of time, Meroe collects the drowned of the world, men and women both, denying them the afterlife they deserve. Women are fortunate, for they are merely made handmaidens to herself and her inhuman children, but woe unto the men who must wed her and join her miserable harem. Miserable because here, in the darkest, coldest halls on Azoth, Meroe reveals her true face: a grotesque monstrosity said to be so horrifying it would make even the most black hearted sea reavers weep with terror. Miserable because here, they must lay with her and father her children. All hope, all happiness dies in the wake of Meroe’s ever growing brood.

None can say if the tale is true or not, but few are willing to risk being mistaken in disbelieving it, and so perpetuate the myth from one generation to the next. Sailormen do tell of many outlandish creatures they have seen on their maritime voyages, creatures so strange and repulsive that they might very well be Meroe’s dreaded children.

Better to throw a slave overboard and make sure you are spared, no?

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

No reason to quit, so I'm still around.

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

A veritable wall of rain blasted against his soaked wooden shield, held high to ward his face. Far above, shrouded in blackest clouds, angry gods thundered and raged and threw bolts of lightning onto the earth, shaking the very ground. A group of riders, ten horses in all, galloped in a mad dash across the open meadow where tall grasses swayed wildly in the tempestuous winds. His skin was freezing underneath his drenched garments and the only warmth provided to him came from the mead in his belly, the unsaddled back of his horse, and the delicate body pressed against his back whose colorless, strained arms wrapped around his chest.

“T’is an ill omen, Elgar!” the woman behind him shouted through the storm, her tone portentous and alarming as it often was, “The weather was clear for over a week! And now that we undertake this important journey, the spirits warn us of dark times ahead. Mark my words!”

With his free – and only – hand, he grasped the woman’s pale wrist and gave her an affectionate stroke. “The weather’s always shite, dove!” Elgar laughed into the gale-whipped rain. “If anything, last week’s clear sky ought to have been a good omen! Those are less interesting to foretell though, aren’t they?”

“You know better than to mock me!” she protested, earnestly upset that he would brush aside her wisdom so easily.

“Ease up lass, t’is just some rain! We’ll be in warm halls in no time at this pace!”

Rhawn scoffed and lay her head against his neck, wrapping her arms tighter around him. Of all the men in the grim north, there was only one who would have the gall to laugh at her gravity – and that’s the one she had to marry. But perhaps that was exactly why, she thought with a faint smile that none could see. Of all the men in the north, he was also the only one who could see in her not a paleborn witch, to be feared and worshipped, but a woman of flesh and blood, with fears and desires. He was the only one who could see the wound in her and for that, she loved him, even if he was unable to heal it.

---

The arrival of the Vile Heart in Kingsport, two days later, was met with little fanfare and only the usual curiosity. Two of the fifteen men who accompanied the Chief remained outside the city gates, to watch over the horses they had brought; their animals were more wild than tamed and would prove an ill fit for a traditional stable, but the young lads had experience with the beasts and knew how to command their loyalty. The rest followed the chief and his wife in a disorderly fashion, an unorganized throng of dourly-clad warriors armed with spears and swords and shields which seemed to come from an older time. The colorful horsetail, dyed red and blue, which dangled from their helmet and their similarly-colored, bright face paint contrasted almost comically with their otherwise dull grey and brown leather and fur clothing. Perhaps some might be inclined to laugh, but most mockery choked at the sight of their pale white cloaks: visibly sewn from the flayed hides of Pale-Men, their limbs and faces still imprinted on the uncut skins. Faces contorted by malice and spite, forever screaming voicelessly. Elgar had chosen each of them carefully, for they were no young aspirants but seasoned veterans, the dreaded Pale-Slayers who hunted in the north every year.

The time of the moot brought all sorts of strange folk to Kingsport, and gossiping women and curious children would become witness to many curious things. Vague glances and half-hidden whispers followed the warriors from the Red Marsh all the way to the king’s keep. Rhawn in particular captured the attention of many with her outlandish appearance: freakishly white of skin, like snow brought to life, with hair that dragged behind her across the ground. Small bones had been woven everywhere into her massive black mane, with more of them dangling from her skirt and mantle, underneath of which she wore little more than a narrow strip of cloth around her chest. In her right hand she carried a glaive of sorts, tipped with an eerie looking metal point that looked warped and gnarly, more like tree bark than forged metal – and which never reflected any light. She was the type of woman who inspired farfetched and fantastical myths about the people of the north, hogwash tales of cannibals and savages who worshipped older and darker gods than the Red pantheon. But every myth contains a grain of truth somewhere and today, Rhawn was that grain.

---

“So these are the customs of the civilized south eh,” Elgar chuckled as he prodded Rhawn with the stump of his left forearm. This was his second time in Kingsport; once he was here when the Pale-Men invaded in full force a few decades ago, but ever since he had no true interest in matters of politics. It all seemed so ridiculous to him, grown men barking at each other and tripping over the formalities of arbitrary rules, all in a bid to sit on a fancy chair. Meanwhile, real men fought daily with real monsters that threatened to end all of human kind if given half a chance, and their reward for this was to be regarded as uncultured barbarians. Elgar held no love for the southern Broken Landers and their power plays, even if he promised to respect the faith his ancestor had put into the Stonecutter clan.

“Men will always bicker like children when grown-up toys are at stake,” Rhawn commented matter-of-factly. “Wealth and power will always hold sway over the hearts and minds of rulers. You too should be interested, Elgar. We could use these things for the betterment of out tribe. We have lived in a worthless swamp for centuries.”

“We have powerful allies and powerful men,” he argued, waving dismissively with his stump and taking a deep gulp from his mug with his actual hand. “As if we needed anything these self-absorbed sycophants have to offer.”

Rhawn leaned in on him and placed her colorless finger over his mead-wetted lips. “You are in the high king’s hall, chieftain. You will mind your language, and you will listen to my advice. This is why you brought me. You are being short-sighted, and this is why our children are forced to grow up in a stinking marsh instead of a fine city.”

“Don’t you see that a war is brewing, Elgar?” she continued in a whisper, leaning into his ear, “This is what civil war looks and smells like. Soon we will taste it. The storm clouds were right, the spirits do not lie. Lines will be drawn, my dear, and even if you don’t care for the lines you will find yourself on one side… or the other. We need to make sure we find ourselves on the side that does not end up decorating the top of a pike or as slaves to a vengeful master.”

“And if the Pale Ones use this chance to attack us when the land is divided? If we send our men away to fight other men for some nebulous purpose, some line drawn in the sand by an angry man? Who will protect our women and children?”

“T’is not the first time, Elgar, that you find yourself surrounded from all sides with only a single speartip to brace against the charge. You escaped that too; best remember how you did it.”

She removed herself from him and cast her cold, amber eyes around the hall, taking in the sights and the welling emotions with a sip of mead sweetened with her own spices.

Elgar, meanwhile, grew silent and withdrawn. Yes, he had found himself surrounded once before, in a dark place where escape was but a flight of fancy. Cheating death was one thing, he thought and looked at his bandaged stump of a left arm, but how could he do the same for an entire clan? Rhawn had been right, as she so often was. He had to look past his own grudges and attitudes and fulfill his role as leader to the Vile Heart clan – the leader of a people in need of protection.

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

Vile Heart

Vile Heart Clan

Chief Name & Description: Elgar One-Hand

Government Type: Tribal Chiefdom

Non Human Species Descriptions: [Clans are mostly human, but non human allies/slaves/etc are allowed with GM approval]

Location:

Hider

Regional Geography/Resources/Economy Details:
Once pushed out of the more bountiful lands to the south, the Vile Heart now mainly inhabit a marsh-like tundra region on the mainland’s northern coast. In the long winters that reign here the perpetually drenched earth freezes up and yields almost no life. In the brief summers that follow, the terrain becomes a swampy death trap of treacherously deep ponds and soft mud that threatens to devour a man whole. Fresh water can only be found in the south, where the glaciers of the southern mountain range feed into icy cold streams that will keep the coastlands drenched and wet for centuries to come.

Life is harsh along the Misted Coast, but the people who have been pushed to these vile climes have learned to adapt. Constructing enclosures walled by dikes, they carve out humble islands that are drained and made livable for cattle and crops. Piece by piece, the tribes of the Red Marsh work to reclaim the land and make it tolerable, if not wholly livable.

The most noteworthy aspect of the Red Marsh is the ubiquitous, ancient ruins found all throughout the region. It is suspected that once a large city of the Old Ones stood in this place, but centuries of neglect and swampland rot have sunken the ruins below the water and the soft earth. All that remains are the tallest structures and towers, jutting out of the cold waters at odd angles. Many of these can still be entered, and if one follows them down one can descend beneath the earth to where the rest of the city is buried. It is a lightless pit where the ghosts and demons of a fallen age still haunt and relive the agony of their final days. Few men muster the bravery to venture below in search of ancient artifacts – none return.

On the opposite side of the Howling Bay, a steep icy cliff rises out of the water. Beyond it lie only snow and death, as far as anyone knows; for those are the lands of the pale-men, and those who venture into the snowstorms never return.

Their home land is poor in resources, barely enough to sustain a people, except in one respect: the Red Marsh and its many ruins are strangely resplendent in Ichor which is not only prized by their wicked witches, but also used to bargain with other clans – and, if rumors are true, even with beast men – for favors and resources. What’s more, the urban remains that fill the marsh are an excellent source of Old One relics, most of which are worthless baubles but whose mystical origin might nonetheless make them desirable to collectors and decadents.

Clan Description:
The Vile Heart are one of at least a dozen splintered tribes that inhabit the northern wilderness. Although sharing in a vaguely blood-related heritage, they nonetheless spend much time feuding with one another over petty conflicts of land, honor and wives. Not so long ago, the great clans hardly knew who these people even were. It was only when, about four generations ago, the tribe vigorously assisted the Stonecutters in driving a significant pale-man incursion back into the blasted northlands that they were recognized as a legitimate clan at all. As thanks for their unexpected – but ruthlessly efficient – aid in the battle, a then young king Aigoth permitted them to sit at his table.

They are, in all respects, less developed than most people in the Broken Lands. Decades of isolation have cut them off from technological developments and rendered them culturally aloof. At best their mannerisms are considered mildly amusing and curious. At worst, they are seen as barbarians who share more in common with the beast men they so despise than they might realize. They have no true industry to speak of, nothing on the level of the Red Knots in any event. Their greatest industrial feat is the ability to carve out patches of dry land from an otherwise perpetually soaked marsh; for the rest they are a relatively primitive mixture of farmers and hunter-gatherers.

Although they have access to some iron from the nearby mountains, they nonetheless regularly employ bone and stone for simple tools like knives and arrows. Swords or iron tipped spears are considered a luxury, reserved for the strongest warriors. Metal armor is practically unheard of. Unsurprisingly, when it comes to warfare they prefer to avoid open conflicts, lacking both the numbers and the equipment to wage open field battles. When disaster compels them to do battle, they will seek every avenue possible to ambush, harass and weaken their enemy from the darkness. Should they be able to demoralize and thin out an enemy enough to actually defeat them in battle, they will take as many prisoners as they can. The Vile Heart greatly prize the possession of slaves, not least of all because of the circle of witches, whose frequent demands for blood can quickly thin the available stock. This is also the origin of their name: they are said to have the blackest hearts of all the northern tribes people because of the particular viciousness of their blood sacrifices.

Religion:
The northern tribes all put much stock in animistic druids and shamans, but none of their wise men and women compare to the veritable cult that has established itself amidst the Vile Heart. A group of women, all hand-picked because of their alleged pale-man ancestry, practices its cruel rituals atop the largest surface-level ruin in the Red Marsh: the Iron Gardens, named so because of the massive, hideous tree of pure iron that grows atop the pyramidal structure. No man can say what it is or what perversion of natural law can allow it to exist, but the witches – as they are sometimes fearfully called – believe that it is a fledgling god in need of care and nourishment. One day its chrysalis will burst, and the Vile Heart will be rewarded for their diligence while their enemies will become slaves and corpses.

Some will say that it is superstitious madness borne of the desperation of a people driven to the edge of extinction. But Azoth is a dark world, filled with ancient demons alive and dead, and those awaiting their rebirth. The question is not if the Vile Heart are delusional. The only question is, if the men of the Broken Lands can afford to believe this.

Clan History: [pls work with other players- our clans are all part of a single confederation, there will be a lot of shared history]

Important Characters:
Elgar One-Hand
A man covered in scars, most of them claw and bite marks, whose dogged joyfulness never wanes; even in the face of death. After a dreadful encounter in the stygian abyss beneath the Red Marsh, he emerged from the blackness a changed man: optimistic and full of life, a man thankful for every day he is still allowed to breathe. So horrible were the things he has seen, he seems incapable of fear any longer, as he boldly cuts a path through Pale-Men whenever he has to face them, never once even flinching at their shrill screams.

His days as a warrior are near their end, however; age is catching up to him, and his many wounds old and new – chiefly, his missing left hand – are making the warrior’s life ever harder. What he enjoys most these days is spending time with his family and grooming his potential heirs. An agreeable, if unscrupulous man who is well liked not only amongst his kin but amongst outsider clans too – if only because he sets a positive example for the otherwise dour and aloof tribesmen.

The Witches
Rhawn the Wicked
A striking woman whose greasy black hair drags across the floor, she conveys an air of the tribal and primitive, the very essence of the northern tribes: clad in furs and coarse cloth and adorned with ornaments of bone. Although she can appear coy and reserved, she is pleasant to talk to; at least, if one isn’t her slave. She earned her name through her vulgar displays of power. Malcontent with merely sacrificing servants, she humiliates them and basks in the authority she enjoys. Some say she does it to combat – and fuel – her self-loathing.

Aderyn the Versed
She diligently studies the language of the Old Ones, and the properties of Ichor, and takes great pride in her deep knowledge. Somewhat socially aloof, she will nonetheless go out of her way to criticize and educate others if they are wrong about something she believes she knows better. She always seems a bit on edge, possibly because of the portentous things she has learned, and has a tendency to drug herself into a stupor with a self-brewed concoction of herbs and Ichor when the fear becomes overwhelming. When asked about the brew, she claims that it helps her gain cosmic inspiration.

Seren the Morose
An odd duckling amongst the witches – not only because of her bright blond hair – Seren is most often found in a sour mood. She strongly disagrees with the Vile Heart’s tradition of slave-keeping and would much prefer to use animal sacrifices to nourish the iron tree. Sometimes she even frees some captives, when no one is watching. Nonetheless, her ideas are most often met with derision and contempt, and her intrepid little escapades of freeing sacrificial slaves are only mildly punished. Powerless to change the ways of her people, she sulks.

Mairwen the Fearful
The second-youngest of the witches, Mairwen is but a teenage girl who is struggling as much with occult ritual magic, and the dark gods that are called by it, as she does with her own budding womanhood. Aside from a few well-trusted confidantes, Mairwen is crippled by social anxiety and makes a poor conversationalist; she is far too caught up in her own world to care for someone else’s. She flourishes best when left alone where her creative genius can unfold. Having been introduced to writings of the Old Ones by Aderyn, she has developed a frightening knack for crafting new and ever more complex runes using their language. She has no idea what any of them mean, and most of them are merely signs, but who knows… perhaps one day she will craft the end of mankind, or decipher its salvation.

Nerys the Godless
The youngest and most terrifying of all the witches, Nerys is speculated to have so much Pale-Man blood in her veins that there is hardly anything human at all in her. She is still a child, barely approaching her teens, and already her desire for causing pain and suffering are equal to none. Few men remain unaffected by the sight of a young girl gleefully cutting shallow lines into a screaming prisoner, and even the other witches worry what she might become in ten years.

Carryl the Selfless
Garwen the Avaricious
Arianell the Belligerent

Important Holdings/Territory/Possessions: [describe your settlements, limited to 3-4 cities, max, plus as many lesser holdings as make sense for your Clan]

Relation to other Factions:

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

I'm putting up a very much unfinished WIP so that you guys can at least get a rough feel for my intended flavor and position in the world. Might inspire people for story inputs too.

Vile Heart

Vile Heart Clan

Chief Name & Description: Elgar One-Hand

Government Type: Tribal Chiefdom

Non Human Species Descriptions: [Clans are mostly human, but non human allies/slaves/etc are allowed with GM approval]

Location:

Hider

Regional Geography/Resources/Economy Details:
Once pushed out of the more bountiful lands to the south, the Vile Heart now mainly inhabit a marsh-like tundra region on the mainland’s northern coast. In the long winters that reign here the perpetually drenched earth freezes up and yields almost no life. In the brief summers that follow, the terrain becomes a swampy death trap of treacherously deep ponds and soft mud that threatens to devour a man whole. Fresh water can only be found in the south, where the glaciers of the southern mountain range feed into icy cold streams that will keep the coastlands drenched and wet for centuries to come.

Life is harsh along the Misted Coast, but the people who have been pushed to these vile climes have learned to adapt. Constructing enclosures walled by dikes, they carve out humble islands that are drained and made livable for cattle and crops. Piece by piece, the tribes of the Red Marsh work to reclaim the land and make it tolerable, if not wholly livable.

The most noteworthy aspect of the Red Marsh is the ubiquitous, ancient ruins found all throughout the region. It is suspected that once a large city of the Old Ones stood in this place, but centuries of neglect and swampland rot have sunken the ruins below the water and the soft earth. All that remains are the tallest structures and towers, jutting out of the cold waters at odd angles. Many of these can still be entered, and if one follows them down one can descend beneath the earth to where the rest of the city is buried. It is a lightless pit where the ghosts and demons of a fallen age still haunt and relive the agony of their final days. Few men muster the bravery to venture below in search of ancient artifacts – none return.

On the opposite side of the Howling Bay, a steep icy cliff rises out of the water. Beyond it lie only snow and death, as far as anyone knows; for those are the lands of the pale-men, and those who venture into the snowstorms never return.

Their home land is poor in resources, barely enough to sustain a people, except in one respect: the Red Marsh and its many ruins are strangely resplendent in Ichor which is not only prized by their wicked witches, but also used to bargain with other clans – and, if rumors are true, even with beast men – for favors and resources. What’s more, the urban remains that fill the marsh are an excellent source of Old One relics, most of which are worthless baubles but whose mystical origin might nonetheless make them desirable to collectors and decadents.

Clan Description:
The Vile Heart are one of at least a dozen splintered tribes that inhabit the northern wilderness. Although sharing in a vaguely blood-related heritage, they nonetheless spend much time feuding with one another over petty conflicts of land, honor and wives. Not so long ago, the great clans hardly knew who these people even were. It was only when, about four generations ago, the tribe vigorously assisted the Stonecutters in driving a significant pale-man incursion back into the blasted northlands that they were recognized as a legitimate clan at all. As thanks for their unexpected – but ruthlessly efficient – aid in the battle, a then young king Aigoth permitted them to sit at his table.

They are, in all respects, less developed than most people in the Broken Lands. Decades of isolation have cut them off from technological developments and rendered them culturally aloof. At best their mannerisms are considered mildly amusing and curious. At worst, they are seen as barbarians who share more in common with the beast men they so despise than they might realize. They have no true industry to speak of, nothing on the level of the Red Knots in any event. Their greatest industrial feat is the ability to carve out patches of dry land from an otherwise perpetually soaked marsh; for the rest they are a relatively primitive mixture of farmers and hunter-gatherers.

Although they have access to some iron from the nearby mountains, they nonetheless regularly employ bone and stone for simple tools like knives and arrows. Swords or iron tipped spears are considered a luxury, reserved for the strongest warriors. Metal armor is practically unheard of. Unsurprisingly, when it comes to warfare they prefer to avoid open conflicts, lacking both the numbers and the equipment to wage open field battles. When disaster compels them to do battle, they will seek every avenue possible to ambush, harass and weaken their enemy from the darkness. Should they be able to demoralize and thin out an enemy enough to actually defeat them in battle, they will take as many prisoners as they can. The Vile Heart greatly prize the possession of slaves, not least of all because of the circle of witches, whose frequent demands for blood can quickly thin the available stock. This is also the origin of their name: they are said to have the blackest hearts of all the northern tribes people because of the particular viciousness of their blood sacrifices.

Religion:
The northern tribes all put much stock in animistic druids and shamans, but none of their wise men and women compare to the veritable cult that has established itself amidst the Vile Heart. A group of women, all hand-picked because of their alleged pale-man ancestry, practices its cruel rituals atop the largest surface-level ruin in the Red Marsh: the Iron Gardens, named so because of the massive, hideous tree of pure iron that grows atop the pyramidal structure. No man can say what it is or what perversion of natural law can allow it to exist, but the witches – as they are sometimes fearfully called – believe that it is a fledgling god in need of care and nourishment. One day its chrysalis will burst, and the Vile Heart will be rewarded for their diligence while their enemies will become slaves and corpses.

Some will say that it is superstitious madness borne of the desperation of a people driven to the edge of extinction. But Azoth is a dark world, filled with ancient demons alive and dead, and those awaiting their rebirth. The question is not if the Vile Heart are delusional. The only question is, if the men of the Broken Lands can afford to believe this.

Clan History: [pls work with other players- our clans are all part of a single confederation, there will be a lot of shared history]

Important Characters:
Elgar One-Hand
A man covered in scars, most of them claw and bite marks, whose dogged joyfulness never wanes; even in the face of death. After a dreadful encounter in the stygian abyss beneath the Red Marsh, he emerged from the blackness a changed man: optimistic and full of life, a man thankful for every day he is still allowed to breathe. So horrible were the things he has seen, he seems incapable of fear any longer, as he boldly cuts a path through Pale-Men whenever he has to face them, never once even flinching at their shrill screams.

His days as a warrior are near their end, however; age is catching up to him, and his many wounds old and new – chiefly, his missing left hand – are making the warrior’s life ever harder. What he enjoys most these days is spending time with his family and grooming his potential heirs. An agreeable, if unscrupulous man who is well liked not only amongst his kin but amongst outsider clans too – if only because he sets a positive example for the otherwise dour and aloof tribesmen.

The Witches
Rhawn the Wicked
A striking woman whose greasy black hair drags across the floor, she conveys an air of the tribal and primitive, the very essence of the northern tribes: clad in furs and coarse cloth and adorned with ornaments of bone. Although she can appear coy and reserved, she is pleasant to talk to; at least, if one isn’t her slave. She earned her name through her vulgar displays of power. Malcontent with merely sacrificing servants, she humiliates them and basks in the authority she enjoys. Some say she does it to combat – and fuel – her self-loathing.

Aderyn the Versed
She diligently studies the language of the Old Ones, and the properties of Ichor, and takes great pride in her deep knowledge. Somewhat socially aloof, she will nonetheless go out of her way to criticize and educate others if they are wrong about something she believes she knows better. She always seems a bit on edge, possibly because of the portentous things she has learned, and has a tendency to drug herself into a stupor with a self-brewed concoction of herbs and Ichor when the fear becomes overwhelming. When asked about the brew, she claims that it helps her gain cosmic inspiration.

Seren the Morose
An odd duckling amongst the witches – not only because of her bright blond hair – Seren is most often found in a sour mood. She strongly disagrees with the Vile Heart’s tradition of slave-keeping and would much prefer to use animal sacrifices to nourish the iron tree. Sometimes she even frees some captives, when no one is watching. Nonetheless, her ideas are most often met with derision and contempt, and her intrepid little escapades of freeing sacrificial slaves are only mildly punished. Powerless to change the ways of her people, she sulks.

Mairwen the Fearful
The second-youngest of the witches, Mairwen is but a teenage girl who is struggling as much with occult ritual magic, and the dark gods that are called by it, as she does with her own budding womanhood. Aside from a few well-trusted confidantes, Mairwen is crippled by social anxiety and makes a poor conversationalist; she is far too caught up in her own world to care for someone else’s. She flourishes best when left alone where her creative genius can unfold. Having been introduced to writings of the Old Ones by Aderyn, she has developed a frightening knack for crafting new and ever more complex runes using their language. She has no idea what any of them mean, and most of them are merely signs, but who knows… perhaps one day she will craft the end of mankind, or decipher its salvation.

Nerys the Godless
The youngest and most terrifying of all the witches, Nerys is speculated to have so much Pale-Man blood in her veins that there is hardly anything human at all in her. She is still a child, barely approaching her teens, and already her desire for causing pain and suffering are equal to none. Few men remain unaffected by the sight of a young girl gleefully cutting shallow lines into a screaming prisoner, and even the other witches worry what she might become in ten years.

Carryl the Selfless
Garwen the Avaricious
Arianell the Belligerent

Important Holdings/Territory/Possessions: [describe your settlements, limited to 3-4 cities, max, plus as many lesser holdings as make sense for your Clan]

Relation to other Factions:

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

Hello folks. It's been a long time since I wrote anything and I want to get back into doing just that. If there aren't too many people already, and if you'll have me, I'd love to contribute; even though we never really got off the ground, Flagg, your RPs have always been fertile soil for my fantasy so that's good regardless. I had some preliminary thoughts, so if you'll indulge me I'll share them.

So, when about do we get some more info on the Pale-Men exactly? I was thinking about writing a people that's been raided by them so many times now that a significant portion of Pale-Man blood has mixed into their general gene pool. Every so often the gene is particularly prominent in a child and these pale born men and women are held in special regard. I imagined that pale-born would be sensitive to magical things and probably end up as occultists, witches, soothsayers and the like. In particular, I'd like to create a sort of shaman or witch cult around a strange artifact, probably Old One-related, that they both venerate and utilize as a tool for arcane rituals - sometimes successful, sometimes dubious, but always cruel.

What's more, I wanted to settle them in an area where a significant Old One city once stood, but which has since sunken beneath the earth of a soft-earthed bog so that only tall towers stick out of the stagnant waters now. Some of these structures can be entered from the top and explored towards the bottom, beneath the earth, but such expeditions rarely return, and if they do their faces speak volumes of terror - as they must, for their lips are forever sealed.

The artifact I mentioned - found atop the largest ruin by far, which by some estimates is argued to be either a great temple, a palace, or a tomb - is a large, iron tree. Its unearthly metal has the strange quality that it sucks up blood like a sponge, and indeed grows the tree further when watered with blood. Although it is difficult to remove pieces of the tree, its metal can be forged and wounds caused by this material allegedly never truly heal or stop bleeding. The idea is that the cult I talked about would make rich, bloody sacrifices of slaves and prisoners to the tree (or one of its saplings) in order to coax some of the magical power inside of it to the outside - hopefully with a desireable result.

Rough summary of my thoughts so far, figure it's gonna be helpful if there's still room for me and if we're supposed to develop the setting together.

The Prophecy

Hello Jack, and hello Prophecy players. I bring shame; I don’t know how else to put it. I messed it up, again, hard, and the shame that came with it made me even more petrified of coming online and doing you the least decency of explaining myself or at least quitting in a formal, rational manner. It’s what I should have done. By rights, I should have months ago, but I didn’t and there is no justification for it, none that can justify it in any manner. But it’s not right to treat you this way. You’re great people. You’re great friends. You’ve shown me patience and a readiness to forgive I did not deserve, and I squandered it more than once. I cannot amend this state of affairs, but I can at least come out and break the silence that I veiled myself in so thoroughly.

I think it’s best if I quit the roleplay. I’ve a lack of interest in it at this point, I have trouble finding the motivation to write anything at all to be frank, for any roleplay, and there is no point in continuing a charade of persistence when I know full well I won’t be able to keep up and would just fall into inactivity again. That won’t do anyone any good.

I’m not sure what else to add to this. I want to say thank you for the good times we had, and thank you for bearing with me through the bad. I want to say sorry, profusely, for making the same blunder every god damn year. You didn’t deserve it.

So that’s a farewell for the time being. Most of you should know how to contact me, for all and sundry should you desire. For everything else, that’s it; I’ll be off to find some answers as to whether or not I still want to write, and how I go about defeating my inner demons.

Good luck and all the best for all of you and this roleplay!

Rotten Spokes of the Unlawful Wheel

Nothing too constructive I'm afraid. I just didn't find either the time or the creative impetus necessary to produce something of note, so I'm afraid I'll have to sit this one out. Maybe it'll work out next time. Best of luck to all of you though and have fun!

Rotten Spokes of the Unlawful Wheel

Sounds like beautiful fodder for a dystopia to me ;D But you make a good case against their widespread use. Still, I imagine some sort of middle-ground might be reached, as we already see a strong trend to move away from cash money in the real world (what with banks, at least where I live, closing counters at the bank and imposing extra fees on non-online transfers etc to discourage the use of non-digital payments) and stuff like amazon's physical shop aiming for a system where you don't need cashiers anymore, where you simply take the stuff you want, walk out, and all the goods you took are scanned and billed as you leave. Maybe the chips (or cards) require borderline physical contact to be read.

Edit: Your load might be tough, but you also write pretty long posts Shien. Maybe you could reach a compromise and cut down on size to accomodate for your available time?