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Kaithe Dame Member
Vylinius of Varathia
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Bio
I like writing about strange people put into uncomfortable situations that force them to think creatively to overcome them. Brain worms currently include the Yakuza franchise, The Last Sovereign JRPG, Dragon Age, WH40K, Disco Elysium, and True Detective. Writing sample down below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
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Rewritten from its older Origins variant; still open to a similar concept from the original game if anybody would prefer that over Inquisition.
This post is looking for a GM. If you're looking for a GM, feel free to either look at my profile for my GM4A posts or request them from me. I'm an advanced-novella writer with writing samples pinned to my profile. IRL gender isn't relevant to this prompt.
A creative retelling of the events of Dragon Age Inquisition with an emphasis on creative. The intent of this RP is to step away from the whitewashed, oftentimes boring and unambitious storytelling of the original game go for a more living, breathing introspection into what it means to create a pluralistic monastic order invested with saving the world; all through the eyes of a runaway elven slave from Tevinter with a mysterious agenda and a chip on her shoulder for Templars.
'Spoilers' as to her motivations found shortly below.
////
'Unmaker.'
From her cell, she hears them. The Spirits. The Demons. They call to a name she does not recognize, and yet each time they whisper it she knows it can only mean one thing. She feels it in her bones.
"Unmaker," she repeats, wincing at the weakness of her own voice.
Something horrible happened at the Temple, but each time Sylvan tries to reach back to her thoughts, all she can feel is heat and death and the too rich scent of mint and brimstone. This explanation has not satisfied her captors, and though she may hate them and wish nothing more than to see that they suffer the same fate as those on the mountain ... they are right to believe something is amiss about her.
For instance; there is a spiraling mass of Fade crackling at the base of her wrist that sings a song that is killing her faster than is ideal. No matter how many times she reminds herself that death is unacceptable and responds to every sword pointed in her face with a cute remark and a refusal to explain her intentions; the thing upon her hand grows, and the voices echoing from it grow louder alongside it.
The walls do not seem real anymore. Her own *mind* does not seem real. Each blink and two minutes of sleep she manages between bouts of agony have her terrified that she will awake back in Tevinter, never having made it past the Master's estate walls.
The demons are happy to remind her that escape is possible, that her Dalish kin are only one exchange of her soul away, and though her fever make them a tempting offer, she has not grown that desperate.
Not yet.
She'd give it three more shots of torment from the visitor on her hand before she let a Demon take her for a ride. Abominification couldn't be any worse than death at the basement of this Chantry.
This post is looking for a GM. If you're looking for a GM, feel free to either look at my profile for my GM4A posts or request them from me. I'm an advanced-novella writer with writing samples pinned to my profile. IRL gender isn't relevant to this prompt.
A creative retelling of the events of Dragon Age Inquisition with an emphasis on creative. The intent of this RP is to step away from the whitewashed, oftentimes boring and unambitious storytelling of the original game go for a more living, breathing introspection into what it means to create a pluralistic monastic order invested with saving the world; all through the eyes of a runaway elven slave from Tevinter with a mysterious agenda and a chip on her shoulder for Templars.
'Spoilers' as to her motivations found shortly below.
////
'Unmaker.'
From her cell, she hears them. The Spirits. The Demons. They call to a name she does not recognize, and yet each time they whisper it she knows it can only mean one thing. She feels it in her bones.
"Unmaker," she repeats, wincing at the weakness of her own voice.
Something horrible happened at the Temple, but each time Sylvan tries to reach back to her thoughts, all she can feel is heat and death and the too rich scent of mint and brimstone. This explanation has not satisfied her captors, and though she may hate them and wish nothing more than to see that they suffer the same fate as those on the mountain ... they are right to believe something is amiss about her.
For instance; there is a spiraling mass of Fade crackling at the base of her wrist that sings a song that is killing her faster than is ideal. No matter how many times she reminds herself that death is unacceptable and responds to every sword pointed in her face with a cute remark and a refusal to explain her intentions; the thing upon her hand grows, and the voices echoing from it grow louder alongside it.
The walls do not seem real anymore. Her own *mind* does not seem real. Each blink and two minutes of sleep she manages between bouts of agony have her terrified that she will awake back in Tevinter, never having made it past the Master's estate walls.
The demons are happy to remind her that escape is possible, that her Dalish kin are only one exchange of her soul away, and though her fever make them a tempting offer, she has not grown that desperate.
Not yet.
She'd give it three more shots of torment from the visitor on her hand before she let a Demon take her for a ride. Abominification couldn't be any worse than death at the basement of this Chantry.
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