Welcome to the Guild! Don't worry about making an intro, haha! I know how icebreakers-on-the-first-day-of-school kinda awkward it can be. ;) If you have any questions, wanna chat, or looking to RP, don't be afraid to hit me up. See you around!
Emptiness. Cold, hollow emptiness. A void of nothing, choking and dark and terrifying in all senses of the word. Nothing but emptiness.
And then, a whisper.
Muorival.
The being that came into form from the womb of an empty vastness, wrapped in light that faded to the deepest black, shivered as the coldness of the void washed over her curled form. Emptiness. But not quite. There were others. Pulsing beings of power and ferocity. Their presence pulsed and beat and throbbed like a heartbeat, deafening against the silence of the darkness before her. Sparks of what would and would not be, of fates yet passed and not yet born. Something more. Something new. Who. What. How. Questions and answers that threaded intangible truths and unknowns into the creaks of her mind before slipping into the void.
But not all. There was one, strong and unrelenting, knotted in the needles of Knowing. This she grabbed, she pulled, she unwinded. This truth, shivering with potential and energy, was the truth of the Soul.
Awaken, my children, she whispered. Awaken.
Muroival's eyes opened, her gaze a beam of white light that pierced the veil of nothingness. From this, whisps of energy poured through. Dancing, winding, seeking different forms and different places. They sang and saw and shivered, filling the void with What-Coulds and What-Wills. They were potential in its purest form, and full of unknown desires that culminated and grew. But they were new, mere fetuses in a dark womb. In the darkness they travelled, farther and farther and farther. They had no Where and no Why, only the need to fill and grow and be.
Come, my children, she beckoned. Come to me.
She willed them closer, the light culminating in her palms. Brighter and brighter and brighter, until it cut through the nothingness like a beacon. The light changed and grew until it was a torch, its handle a smooth ebony and its flame a pure glow that emanated comfort and warmth. Safety for the scared. Rest for the weary. A Torch for the lost.
The Souls danced with joy at this new creation. They turned and flocked around Muroival, weaving in and out of her light. Yet they were still so new, so fragile. Small entities of power that could be used and twisted into perversions of their purpose. Murorival closed her eyes, and as she opened the once more, her light flared brighter. In an instant, the land around her was bathed with brightness. Then, slowly, a changing darkness. Barren trees, thick and dark, reached towards the empty heavens like emancipated hands. Slowly spiraling, slowly winding, forming paths that tricks and trapped.
Amongst the black barked bones and shadows, she created a new entity. Different from the Souls. Something more...dangerous. From the shadows she crafted beasts of fur and bone. Hulking menaces with twisted, rotting bodies patched with shaggy hair. A mane of matted locks crept up its spine, falling over an elongated face of ivory bone that bore a single, twisted spite in the middle of its forehead. These abominations, seen as beautiful by the goddess and given the name 'Mortifers', were given one simple task: serve the goddess.
Yet in the center of this expansive forest stood a circular mountain range of unnerving height. Ominous and dangerous, stone claws that towered over all. Yet in the middle of it all, the black mountains became a violet-blue. Dead trees became lush forests and orchards. Branches were heavy with the weight of fruit, and the grass a deep green. This was a place of rest. A paradise against the emptiness outside. The haven of Elisium, home for the Souls.
Muroival sat in the center of her meadow, the Souls' joyful laughter filling her ears. This was merely the beginning. It wasn't so much as a know, but a feel. A deep sense of starting, and of going and going. There was more to do, more to be. For now, however, the goddess reclined in her throne of grass and merriment, the light of her Torch seemingly brighter than before.
The Action-Cost-Name of Action: Description
Create Sapient Life -- 2AP -- Souls The creation of Souls, fragile manifestations of energy and life conceived from the universe. Present in nearly almost living thing, they return to Elisium once their time in a world has ended. Some, however, refuse to leave their mortal plane as they vainly search for immortality.
Create Artifact -- 5AP -- Muorival's Torch Muorival's Torch is capable of commanding any and all Souls. It can even bring forward the Soul of one who has already passed onto Elisium and restore it to its original body...for a price.
Weave Plane -- 4AP -- Elisium The haven for Souls, Elisium is where they all go after leaving their mortal plane. In the center is meadow surrounded by a ring of mountains. Full of orchards and fine weather, this is regarded as a paradise to all who enter. Surrounding this meadow and taking up a majority of the realm is the Forest of Hands. Thick trees and an ever dark sky permeate this maze-like environment, and packs of Motifers hunt down anything trying to leave or come in.
Create Monstrous Life -- 1AP -- Mortifers Servants of Muorival, they live only to serve their goddess. Having the appearance of an unholy union bewtween an ape and a horse, they are a terrifying sight to behold. Their body is that of a starved ape with a mane of shaggy hair running down its spine, and their feet are backwards horse hooves. Their most infamous feature is their horse-skull head and the single, black horn they use to maim and kill their victims.
I hopefully should have something by the weekend at the latest. Projects and class have been eating sleep away to the point where I'm pretty sure I'd bleed coffee if I was stabbed.
It can be either one, really. I like to think of it like this, if a soul is only a storage of memories/power source then it is a concept. If they are active and actually able to use concepts, even if it is only in the afterlife, then I'd make them a sapient life. Your choice, this is just my thoughts on it.
Thanks! With that in mind, I'll make them sapient as I picture a handful escaping Muorival's afterlife realm and becoming vengeful spirits or something along those lines.
Special Abilities: = Beastbane (Passive) - All weapons are effective against beasts. = Iron Wings (Passive) - Negates the effectiveness of bows against flying units except Manaketes
Equipment: • Iron Ax • Vulnerary • Pouch of Gold
History: The eldest of seven siblings, Roane was born in a remote farming community on the outskirts of Ereb. Life was hard, her father having passed of illness when she was barely twelve, and poverty and labor forced her to grow up fast. Despite the hardships, Roane's mother would often weave tales of whimsical lands and grand adventures by the smoldering coals of their hearth at night. The stories, though fictional, stilled a sense of idealism in Roane. A small spark of belief that one day, whether by the will of the gods or the mysterious twining of fate, she too would get her adventure. What she didn't expect was for that wish to be granted in the form of a mischievous wyvern hatchling.
Roane's meeting with Lyth was one of bizarre circumstance. While hunting in the woods, Roane was surprised by a series of high-pitched squeaks. Following the noise, she found a game trap with a broken-winged wyvern hatchling trapped inside. How he he had gotten there in the first place was a mystery in of itself. Nevertheless, Roane took pity on the creature and rescued it from its bindings. From then on, Roane raised and nurtured the hatchling, whom she dubbed 'Lyth', until his wing was healed. Over time, however, the two grew close and when when it came Lyth's time to leave, he instead stayed behind with his newfound friend.
Years passed, Roane's sense of adventure growing with each season. Trips past the woods and around the neighboring mountains became more frequent. On one such occasion, the rider and her steed stumbled across a violent scene. In the middle of a mountain path was a small group of bandits leading away the bound form of a young girl. Without even thinking, Roane charged towards the fiends, managing to snatch the girl from their grasps before flying to safety.
Upon their arrival home, the girl revealed herself to be Lady K'shein of the House of Niveana. She told of how she had been stolen away in the night and forced to travel for miles before being rescuers by Roane. In gratitude, K'Shein proposed to Roane a position on her royal guard. Roane accepted in heartbeat, paving the way to a life beyond the fields of her past.
Domains (Portfolios): Death [Souls], Community [Guidance]
Alignment: Lawful Neutral
Symbol(s): A torch/lamp, marigolds, owls, shepherd's crook; the crest of Muorival is of a torch being carried in the talons of an owl.
Appearance: Though Muorival's form on the mortal plane varies, there are three shapes she mainly uses: a peasant child in an owl mask, a great owl roughly the size of a bear, and an elderly, blind woman in a cloak with a lamp. Her true form is that of a tall, bald, ebony woman with multiple arms draped in mist-like robes. Large, dark wings sprout from her back and her eyes carry a light nearly as brilliant as the one from the torch in her hands.
Personality: Muorival is, in more ways than one, the epitome of death. She is peaceful, gentle, quiet. Her words are soft and comforting like a mother's womb, yet the throb with a truth that terrifies even the bravest of warriors. Her actions are born from neither malice nor benevolence, but from pure necessity. Like death, she is unrelenting. Her patience extends for years, centuries even, as she observes with curious fascination the ongoings of mortals and their strange desire to make the most of their fleeting lives.
Dogma: Souls are fragile essences. As such, it is the duty of Muorival to guide them on their journey to the afterlife. Death is needed for life to continue, and life is needed for death to continue. Accept the inevitability death, not as an act of taking, but of deliverance of a needed rest. Desecrate not those that have fallen. Eradicate those who thrive to destroy the sanctity of death. False immortals claiming empty lives and manipulators of agonized sprits at the expense of the innocent are warts on the smooth cycle of life and death. They are to be destroyed.
