Hmm... Are the regained memories strictly limited to those which were originally listed, or could an event or another bring back something from the character's life outside the original memories? (Obviously a person's entire life wouldn't be encompassed in just a dozen still images...)
I also thought a bit further of her - I started typing out the memories, so now my hypothetical character is a her - particular brand of memory-management... I'd propose she wouldn't be impervious to becoming empty, but rather that whether the new memories outnumber or at least balance out the lost ones would depend on ... basically the mercy of random number generation more than anything, at least as far as out-of-character mechanics go? - Not that you could by any means call a person's mind 'intact' once all they can recall are nonsensical nightmarish images ... and said nightmarish images also reform their personality, way of processing the world, and even appearance (not to mention the farther gone she'd be, the harder it would be to get back to something akin to what she originally was). So her remaining a perfectly normal, sane human - which, depending on your personal standards, she might not even fully be anymore by the time I'm finished with the CS, as I intend her to already be a quarter of the way down when the RP begins - after a handful of more deaths ... is a bit too unlikely to be a 'problem' in terms of breaking the game mechanics. In the end, I just want to see what would happen, be it her finding whatever salvation this purgatory has to offer or ending up becoming a monster of some description (with potentially a bit more variation than 'emptiness' alone would allow for).
Under certain circumstances (you'd have to discuss it with me beforehand) we can introduce new memories. Obviously this would work on a situational basis.
So what I can garner from this proposal is that your character is essentially on the verge of being empty, where every fluctuation risks destroying her completely. She is holding back becoming empty by the finest of threads?
Long, Raven Black hair frames a face with primarily sharp features: a pointed nose, sharp eyebrows, and an often contemplative frown or curious purse upon her lips. Her skin is smooth and pale but overall healthy beneath the grime of the darkness, and her physical features hint at a trained athleticism rather than one of experienced hardship, though examination would show that her palms and fingers are rough like one who has worked before, and a few looks upon her body would betray that she has died perhaps twice in her travels already.
Despite her morose epithet, the Oblivion Songstress’ eyes are round in contrast to her otherwise sharp features, carrying a hopeful, perseverant glow from her hazel pupils. In stature, she stands at about the height of the average male, with even proportions and a balanced poise. It appears to most observers that the wastelands have yet to break Oblivion’s spirit, as there is still a slight spring to her step, a straightness to her back and a tightness to her grip that shows she is not yet ready to resign anything further than her name to oblivion.
Or perhaps… Perhaps she has resigned herself to oblivion and thinks this is her own personal hell of atonement.
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Equipment
Her Dress is a tattered, grimy set of layered cloth in faded blue, black, and white with golden trim. It appears that it was once quite pleasant to look at and the material that is left is of durable weave and material. There are steel fasteners at the waist and shoulders that appear to have once held plates. Perhaps armored dresses were something of a necessity where she lived?
A single flower festooned in her hair, a white lily with gold speckles. It appears to have some significance to her as it is the cleanest item on her person. Touching it reveals that the flower is, in fact, real. How it has not withered is anyone’s guess, but is definitely the work of some kind of life preserving magic unrelated to the timelessness of this oblivion.
A leather messenger bag of fine craft, with solid stitching but little ornamentation. Within is several pieces of beef jerky that have yet to be eaten due to their absolute rarity, a folded burlap sack with blood stains just big enough to fit a beef leg… or perhaps a human head, a large flask filled with dirty water of the wastes, a flint and steel set, twine and a spool of particularly strong string and perhaps most importantly:
A leather bound tome filled with songs, hymns and chants in a foreign language. It appears to be waterproof and is singularly clean despite everything else, but Oblivion herself does not know or dare to consider if it is fireproof.
Sheathed at her waist and fastened with a pair of chains, is a sheathed dagger. Inspection of the blade reveals it to be of magical origin as the blade is not of mortal manufacture and is made of clear crystal. It seems to hum slightly in tune with sound.
- - – – – — — — ——— ♦ ——— — — — – – – - -
Memories
♦ Distance. She was alone and training was everything. Her t̶̴̤̦̭͎̰̟͈͓̗͓̮̘̬͎̖͘͟ẹ̡͓̲͙̱͎̙̹̳̹̟̰̫̕͠a̻͎͢ͅc̛̼̥̜̗̝͕͈̪̣͝͞h̶̭̥̞͖̮̝̹̫͞͞e̡̘̪̘̻̜͉̳̮͈̭̝̠̘͉͓̝̝̕͝͠ͅͅŕ̤̫̟̲͔̳̯̖̠͟s̖͈̼̠͚̙͎͕͘͞ ̵̶̷̪̯͎͎͉̘͔̠̣ͅá̡͖͇͎͉̻̼͎̤̘͇̤̯̮̫͘͘n̵̡̢̧̘͕̟̗̝̲͝d̴̘̻͓͙̮̹͎͖̘̭̱̹͔̺̫͟ͅͅ tut͢҉̨҉̬͙͇̜͚̗̘͔̻̞̟̥̱͓͕̩͙͓o͡҉̭͍̙̲̩̞̟̞̗͇̘̮̜̞̞̟r̤̯͉̘͙͡͞s̶̶̜̮̭̤ͅ ͢҉҉̡̻̞͚̥̩͘ẁ̴̗̬̯̙̭̩̣̦͚͙͚͇̩͇̲̩̕͜͞e̶̡̳̞̱͉̝̖͡r̵̶̢̛̯̤̗͔̱̺̼̳̜̭̝̝͖̟̖̟̱͜e͏ wh̴̵͇̣͓̖͢a̡̹̻̞͎̯̜̺̲̝̲͖͇͡͡ͅͅt̵̡͈̣̠͓̻̝͚͍̺̀ͅ ͏̸̶͍͔̦͇̳̱͕̜̝͘͘s̸̡̙̹͚̠̘̮̦̠̼͢͡͡h̷̥̖̙͖̫́͢͡͞é̵̡̯̟͙̱̻̮͎͠͠ ̴̯̳̰̯̹̲̰̥̤̱̥͇̥̫̳͍͢ͅc̸͈̯̮̝̹̳̬̫̟̪̫͕͞ǫ̬̪͙̙̯̬͔͙̝̺̳͉̞͉̟͜n̤̭̼̦͈̺̞̟̭̝̱͎̞͘͠ş̷̛̬͇̦͍͈̳͖̩̭̪̫̝̫͟͞ì̡͏҉̼̦͉͞d̷̛̕͞҉̠͉͖̱͖̰̘̹̱̩̤̹̙̥̙̻̠ͅe̢͇̙̞̞̭͇̣͔͎̳̯̞̩͕̠̦̲͔͟ŕ̷̨̳̟̬̘̣̳̯̬̻͝ȩ̴̦͉̤̞̺͖̩͎̲̼͍d͏̘̪̰̤̘̖̭̜̝ͅ ̨͕͇̗̩̼͉̗͇̜̝̗͎͕͍̼̀h̸̛҉͙͍͓͍̣̦͚͕͖̙̱̩̞͖͠é͓̖̠͍͜͜͡ŗ̶̻͕̙̹͖͚͚̦̩̙͔̺͍̀ parents. There were no other students, no other contacts. It was a cold place, hidden away. But all the training had a purpose. What was that purpose again…? Oblivion remembered politics and history, basic sword fighting and the use of a bow. But most importantly, there was training in the song magic of h̡̨͕͍̫̭̬̪̫͕̘̙͜͞e̵̸̵̡̛̪̻͓̙̭͖̟̱ŗ̫̜͓̯͘ ̛́͞҉͈̼͎̻̟̫͓̤̥̱̙ͅͅn̵̴̯̜̯̯̬͈a̸̸̡͇̜̣̺̲̘̤̯ṱ̸̢͓͚͕͕͚͙͈̰̻͉͇̹̼́͠i̧̡̨̲̝̺̝̪͓͍͢ơ̩̗̫̘̳͕̗̭̬̬̲̗̹̟͢͟͡n̶̨̼̟̯̰̮͖̪̳͉̱̱͉̣͈. ♦
♦ A nation of great white spires that rose up high into the sky. To the people, justice and equality were everything. They could not forgive the neighboring nation for the injustices that they placed upon everyone around them and to themselves. It was a battle of ideologies, and also one of science versus magic. She remembered being told that hatred is the surest of weapons. For this, s҉̭̲͍̞̹͘͟͟h̸̢̯̜̝̮̱͖̯̩̫̙͖̯e҉̫̺̣͈̗̜̣̹̜͉͉͟ ̧͎̩̯̠͓̖̠̰̀́͟ț̨͉͎̖͙͚̪͕̲̣̭̦̲̦͕̤̥́̕͢͞r̬̰̙̙̰̯͕̖̲̱͖͍͓̘̀͟a̴̴̖̭̪͇̞͈̳̬̘̹͈̤̤̝i̩͓̪̙̝̪͘͠n̶̟̳̠̫͖̜̬̝͖̪̭͚̗̲͢͠ͅę̵̨̠̥͔͔̦̜̹̲̰̜̟͢ͅd҉̺̝̟̫͎͖̙̥̤͔́ ha҉͎̪͉̺̯̘̼̜̼̻̫͎̬̥̼̰̬̕͟͟r̷҉̗̤̜͕̬͕̙̠̞̜̦̳͉͙͖̙̗͓̗d̴̨̢̞͉̙̪͎̻͡,̵̸̷͚̤̯̫̫̠̘̺̣̥͖̣̭̖͓̻̀͘ͅ ̛͠͏̷̪͚͖͉̳̹̮̙f͏̢̭̺̯̮̼͎͈͍͓͘͢o̸̶̳̱̦͔̯̦̠̖̜̼̱̤̪̟̯͔͠͡r҉̴̰̟̭̗͎̘̮̥̕͠ ͏̴̬͓̬̬̗̻̤͓͍̯̭̻̳͓̺͔̮͜͟͠į̛̹̻̩̗̻͕̣̮̜̯̻̦͙͙̪̞̩͢͝ṭ̸̷̛̖̹̟͓͓̟̱͝ ͟͟͏̷̰͇̭̲̤͖͖̫̣̙͎͎̟͡w҉͏̢͚̘͙͙͎̠͍̙̭̣͚̝̠̜̺̕a͔̯̖͙͕̠̜͚̩͓̰̼͚͚̠̯̦̕͡͞ͅs̛̳̦̞̺̟͉̝͇̣̤͕̱̝͚̰̗̠͈̝͢͞ ҉͝͏̯̱̝̝̰̣̖̗͎͠ḩ̡̢͏̼͕̳͓̠ͅe̢̢̖̜̠̰̺̲͇̙̖̦̳̬̘͍͟ͅŗ̢̮̲͈̦̩̥͙̺͙̻͔̭̲̻̀ ̨̟̼̜̹̙͓̖̠̟̲͕̜̩̣̗͉͎͘͞o҉̶̢̳̗̬̫̮̝̮̲̜͈̰̯̗̝͞n̵̘͚̯̮̭͎̗̱̤̩̝̬̲͈͉͢l̶̠̘͕̺̟̣̘̬̀ỳ̶̬͔̞̗̪̘̩͔̞̥̰̀ pù͓̩͇̜̯̳̫̹̼͇̣̰͔̼̮̰͙̕͜r̺̘̭͇͙̪̼̳̠͕̟̣̰͍̜̺̙͘͢͠͞p̨͏̳̳̻̞̺͉̩̘̻̭̮́͢͡ͅo͏̴̛̦̖͓̝̦̘̳̜̫͚̣̳͚̠̥͎̠̣̜ş̧̡̟͚͎̙̮͈̗̻ͅe͙͙̭̞͘̕ͅ ̨̨̝̘̖̫̥͉͔̲d̡̳͖̟̭̞̱͝é̞͙͙̯̜͉̪̮͈̥̠̳̦͘͠ͅs̡͕͎͕̩͓̯͈̥͕̫̙̪̻͟͝͡͝p̴̴̢̙̞̘͖̝̖̲͓̺̙̙̳̞ͅi̡̧̮̲̭̼̳̠̲̟̣͍͓̳̠̳̗̭͚͔̘͢t̢̢̻̝͖̲͎͘ȩ̩̺͔͍̭͎̫͔̩̟̫͍̟̲̥̱̕͢͝ ̢̟̣̤̲͕̠̲̠͓̜͉̱͇͚͚̻̜̀͜h͏̛̘͓̳̪̬̝͎̩̯̜͎̺̞̬͙̹͜͠e̴̞̭̠̲ŕ̸̸̡̬͙̖̳̬̙̟̘ ̶̷̤͙̣̣̩̪͍͞ļ̸̸͎͙̟̩ͅͅi̸̡̙̞̣̭̠̯̘͎͖̹͙̤̯̝͘ͅn͔̘͔͉̠̮̯̪̻̗̹͖̖͟͢͠͝ͅè̴̤͉̖̰͇̳̼̕͢͜a̷̢͢҉̮͔͉̣͈̹̳̻͎̟̹̘͔̰̙͚g҉̡̖͍̠̱̪̯͈̱̭͘e͇̫̣̯̹̖͔̙͈͓̟̩̪͠.̼̹͈͇̘̥̗̺̪͎̤͍͚̼̤̕͢͢ͅ ♦
♦ A chance meeting, at the time it couldn’t have been anything but a false start. At least that’s what she convinced herself. Why had the ò̴̵͓̥̮̞͜t̴̴͖̰̩̗̞̘͈͙̟͎̪͈̩̝͕͖̫̖̮͘͟͞h҉̨̛͍͙̟͓̫̗̙̤͓͙̤̖̟̣͍͓̀͜ę̀͏͇̭̣̰̳̠͢r̵̠̤̫͖͚̦̳͕̬̦̦̩̬̘͖͜ ̼̫̩̲̯̫̼́́͡ṕ̧̨͍̘͈͕̳͎̻̜̮̫͇̱̪̟̘̘͡ͅr̷̴̛͔͇̤͓̘̦̩̹̟̯̱̥̜͓͇̥͕͢i͚̞̻͚̻͡n̶̶̢͇͖̼̜̥̝̹͈̭͓̖̬̙̰̫̠̕͜c̢͏̦̥̼̥̩̼̰è̸̴̹̠̪͖͈̬͇̗̺̬̞̳̘̝̦̺̤͝ͅs̷̡̝̣͔̹̤̫̱̬͈̦͢͞͡s͏͕͈̝͕̘͕̫̥͓̟̘̻̝̤͓̩̕͡ spared her life? ♦
♦ Perhaps it was love? S̴͡҉̧̬̜̗̺͕̙̥͙̮i҉̼̲̝̞̰̩̙̲͎̣͙̹̼̠͢͝͠ĺ͙̤͙̦͞ͅk̸̨̺͍̞͚̦̜̟͉̮̩̕͝ͅe̸͞͏͙̪̦̺̹̱̬͎̞ņ̴̶͇̖̭͙̻̮̩͔̞̕ ̢͜҉̸̞̩̩̟͕̙͔̥̠̺̱b̨̳̠̗̲̠̼̺͘l̛͓̱̯̞̜̙͎̺̩̙̪͉̥͞ò̷̺̣͍̙̳̹̼̣̥͚͍͙̬͙̪͇̖͡n͏̥̞̩̤̕͜͢͠d҉͎̝̼͙͔̞̩̯͍̣͚̲͍̞͘͜ͅe̙̫̙̜̞͇̼̤͘͜͞ ̷͚̩̩̱̮̜̯̩̭̦̳̤̭̯͔̥͇̱̰͢h̛̕͏̲̲̙̼̗̱̖̱̬̥̟̰a̶͓̩̗̰̥͉̟͇͈͉̝͈͔̺͞i̵̢̺̣̠̞̺̰̗͍̰͢͜r̴̢̛͔͙͙̬̟̲͔̞̦̠̦͇͉̹̱,̼̞̗̼̩̰̩͍̘̕͘ ̵̤̰͍͎̫̪̖̬̺͇̬͖̬̩͔͢͝͡g̷̴̛̞̫̬̲̣̝̮̠̲̻̤͔̟̤̹̟͜͝ͅr̶̨҉͘͏̩̹̬͉͉̰ͅę̸͕̳̭͔̪͕̖̩̲͕̱͇̀͝e̵̖̘̼̫͘͟n̩̭̭̬͙̦̹̣̳̦̞͖̰̦̭̠͡ͅͅ ̢̥͔̱͎͎̘̘̹͖͙̮̞͉̕e͏͠͏̮͙̭̬͎͉̮̭͘y̸̶̢̝͉͎͚͔̙͖̫̘̫̥̣̱̺̝͢͟e͏̗̦̥̞̫͔̳̗̭̠̼͕̖̞́s͕͈̬͇̪̹̗̲̰̥͍̭̰̦͝͡ͅ ̸̸̭̦͖̮͇̗̝͙͎̬̹͈͜͠ͅà̡̞̥̰͔̪͕̘̜̯͢͞n̵͜҉̝̗͚̰̀d̵̛̪̣̩̞̙ ̧͕̭̜̼̱͙͉͠͠a̷̜͔̜͇̙̮̜̺̣̙͍͎͞ ̴̬̗̝͚̞̦͓͉͖͚͉̤́̕͘͢ͅv̧҉̧̨̘͔͖̜̙̺̹͚̠̤̻̫̀o҉̵̼̹̬̲͟í͕͎̩̹͓̦͙͖̹̘̘̲͚͎̕c̷̶̱͚͖͍̱e҉̘̝̝̠̪͞ͅ ̷̛̖̪̹͎̤̩̰͚̹͖͇̭̼͕̟̺̼̘̠͜͟͠l̴̶̢̖̺͈͓̣͓͔̜͔̼̣͠i̛̜̝̘̺͔̳̺̲̠̠̭̥̳̗̗̼͎̩̕ḱ̀̀̕҉̙̖͙̻̥̣̹̗̣̥ę̸̴̷͙̞̺̲̜̯̣̭̜̥̙͝ ̨̞͈͈͚͓̙̜̦̞͓͔͙͓̗͘͢͜à̵̧̞̲̝̲̣͖̙̣̮̜̞̻̩̜̣̭̺̥̕ņ͎͇̗͙̼̼̮͙̹́͟͝ͅg̶̡̮͚̟̼̤̪̩̫̖e̡̨̳͚̜͕͍͉̖̥l̛̘̼̦͕̞̙̻͚̼̱̯̯͍̲͢s̵̛̬̮̺̰̻͚̯̯͈̞̭̺͚̹̘͞ͅ.̴̷̶̶̟̰̗̱̺̖̱̦̖͟ Wa̵̷͇͓̥͕̰̳̙͉̼̩̜s̶̬̲͍͇̺͔͇̕͠͞ ̪̣̳͇̘̟̲̤̬̣͢͞h̵͡͏̼̱̬̦̰͕͕͎͖͓̳͙̪͔͍͓͔̬̕͟ͅe̕̕҉͚͚̼̤̳̳̠̫̲̦r̷̕͢҉̜̼̩̲̺̺̞͓̠͓̣̬̻̻͍̳̗ ̛̛͎̱̫̠̫̰̠̱̳̖͝n̨҉̬̞̮͖̬͉͉̰̦̞̪̻̠͈̤̘̙͚á̡̼͚̜̭̻̟̗͎̜̗̲͈̳̬͔̕ͅͅţ̵͓̦̱͎̘͝í̸̵̵̮̩̦͚͕̼͍̬̫̙̣̦̲͔̜͘ͅo̴̵̜̫̥̥̻̖̫͍̪̯̲͖̼̤͖̣̩̠̮͝n̵͏͚̙̹̣̠̦̹̦̲̪̠̤͘͡ ̹̖̝̹͉̪͓̫͎̠̘̝͉͡͡w̙̠̳̞̮̬̝̟̻͕͟͟͠r̷̢̢̩͉̖̰͙̻̝͠ͅo̶̢̳̳̕͝ͅͅn͏̴͕̬͉̖̺̰͖̼̼̰͉̭̻̙͘ͅg̛͉͍̣̗̯͘?̸̨̛̠̟͕́ͅ ̗̹̖̼̻͇͚̲̥̜̟͚̦̯̕ͅW̸͜͢͜͏͈̰̫̮̠̬̘̯̰̼̝͔̞̯̖̺ͅe̛͖̲̟̮͉͔͓͉͉̬̹̣̖̕͡ͅr͢͏̛̭̩͔̲̜̻̦͇̦̬̳̹̯̬͙̮͟͝ͅe̷͘҉͟҉̯̗̹̝̭̥ ̴͢͠҉̠̼̻̟̻͍͈̪̞̳̞̺͕̼̤͚t̻̫͍̪̫̺͕̖͘̕ͅḩ̺̞̦̟͈̱͓̰͍̙e̶͢͠͏̮̝̳̰̝̠͎y̥͔̞̞̠̰̻̲̝̼̫͍̯͠ ̶̷̫͇̺̦̫͎̠̣̀͘ͅǹ̛̲̞͓̪͙̱̫̝̼̦̪͘o̴̫͔̺̜̗̫̹̱̙͙̮̕͟͠͡ͅt̯͓̳͇̻̞̤̼͘͟ ̡̢̢͕̘̯̯̠͍̮͓̖͙̹͕͉̰̩̥̗̦ͅa̷̢̛̠̹̘̠̮̟͎̮̠͍͍̘̥̲̫͖̮̺͜͝l҉͔̘̫͚̥̼͓̺̞̝͍͉͖̥̭̩̳̕͡l͝͏̤͈̹͔̬̱̲̘͎̳̹monsters? She turned her head to her servant and asked a question. The servant could not fathom an answer, but instead gave a glowering glare at her master. Was it truly such a malign idea? ♦
♦ A happy scene. In that i̖̠n͉͉̘͍̦̗̮̙͜͡n̠̥͝ ̵̩͎b̡̪͔ȩ̛͍͎͍̲̟t͔̝͕̥̻͚̟͎́w̨͕͙̩͇͚̝͇̮͟e͔̰̖͉̦̮͕͞e҉̙̘̹̜n̳̪̞̤̫͖̫̰͢ ͜҉̰̞͎̖͚͜t͏̫̣̣̳̝͓h̗͓̤̜͇̺̜̕e̵̜̼̞͖̘̪ ͉̖̪̟̻̙͍n̨̝̤̻̻͇̹̝a̸̸̪̣̙̙̦̦̺t͓̗͓̞̱͉̘͟͜i͓̬̰̙͚̱̻ͅó̟n̶̙̝̘̭̞̺͇͜͠s̸͇̟̲̳̞̬̜̞ there was no nationality, no war. That was the unbreakable rule enforced by both science and magic. There was a dance. Oblivion could smile here, and sing along with the innocent hymns. ♦
♦ L͚̮̗̖̹̠͕o͘r̗i̸̫͚a̪c҉̮͉̬e̲̦̺͎̪ was smothered by the suffocating fog. Originally, they had been winning the war, that nation of white spires and equality. Where had it all gone wrong? How could they not see this coming? Was their side not just, or their hatred not sufficient? The time of troubles was quickly approaching for them. But which of the nations did she belong to...? ♦
♦ A victory parade. At its head was t͏̩h͓̟̪e̞̬̗̰͖̹͇ ò̸̷̦͚̣̱̖̝̳̳̭͙͡t̷̩̩̠͎̼̰̺̣̥͉̭̼͎͇̞̲͈̪͇͠͝h̡̺͉̯͙̜̹̮͙͓͎͕̺̬̹̹͔͜͟͠ͅę͔̥̗̞̱̹̦̰͢͠͞͡r̴̛̫̮̻̘̮̺̟̜̘͔̼͎̞̙̲͎͖̣͝ ̬̜͕̬̪̀̕͝͡p̷̖̳̩̬͕͓̮͉r̷̪̖̹͎̻̙̫͕̰͓͚͎̝͇̣̼̳̩̤ì̥̟̳̫̙̭̱̝̬̭̜͜͠ń̪͓̜̗͇̫̬̹̱͎͟͡c̷̨̨̩͓̬̥̘͝ȩ̶̨̛̠͙͕͙̣̭͍̬̙̻͍̙̬͙̰̻̬̻̪͟s̷̥͎͚̠͖̻̱̳͈̀͟ș̛̲̺͎̝͔̯͎̭̞͍̪͇̰͈̬͜͜,̨̭̝͈̖͉̖ ҉͉n҉̟̦͓͚̜̟̦o̼w̗̤̙͡ t͎͙h̩̟̫̗̙̳e̗̫ ͕͇̺Q̧͙̬̮̮ue͇͈̪͜e̜̳̟̠͈̦n̜̲̳̥̪̩ ͈͉͟o̭͉̱̬ͅf̗̱ ̪͚h͇̭̪̗̯͠e̺̱̪̮̣̫ŗ̫̺̭ ̣͕̬ǹ͖̼̜̪̞̼a̴̞͚t̵̥i̥̩̪͚̰ò͇̮͍̟̼n̘.̵̥̭̙̣̱. But the losing nation had not yet capitulated, it was not over. Among the weeping crowd, attackers unveiled themselves and besieged the parading victors, forcing them into the very castle they used to protect. ♦
♦ They arrived. It mattered not what nation, the slaughter began. ♦
♦ Finally… The last memory… ♦
- - – – – — — — ——— ♦ ——— — — — – – – - -
Awakening
In retrospect, it was probably all a dream. But at the same time, what other proof of self is there other than these fragments?
♦♦♦
The Knights of the Guard assembled, their great tower shields bared forward, spears held steadfastly. They poised themselves, prepared in all forms to protect the princess. They were the last line of defense, their assurance of victory stood behind them...
And so she began to sing...
To any bystander, her voice was clear through all the commotion, destruction and other sound. Accompanying her was an invisible chorus of varied voices that chanted along. It was simply something that could not be ignored. Verse by verse, a litany of words incomprehensible to the average mortal ear. To those who could comprehend, each verse alternated between the languages of the realm above, and that below. To those that understood, it was an impossible tale of foretelling. A dark future where chaos reigned and the world stood at the brink of certain destruction. An end time where judgement was passed upon living and dead alike. Rather than an end to an era, it was the end of all things.
Importantly, the battlefield ritual required that a certain degree of 'chaos' be met. It was a time of war, and the condition was complete.
Importantly, the ritual's purpose was to summon forth just a fraction of that time. It was something that important, that part of the world's end needed to be summoned.
Its name translated to 'The End', its outcome was to purge. The range was infinite, and when both chant and conditions were complete, there was no escape. Instead of calling it a move for certain victory, it would be best called 'greatest desperation', as the caster too would not be spared. Her soul would be torn asunder, destroyed and cast into oblivion for upsetting the balance. Her body would be ripped apart, obliterated in a way that no trace could be found. The End struck both ways, for both parties.
But, it was not to be. In a flash, in a violent booming of sound, the world seemed to shake and the seemingly invulnerable Guardsmen in front of the princess crumbled into dust.
In her final moments, the princess did not flinch, but only stood still, continuing her chanting as if she could finish the impossibly lengthy ritual. It was impossible.
As the Knights before her, she too was reduced to dust, with one exception: before her destruction, an arrow pierced her throat, a glaring, red crystal at its tip. As it happened, she was unable to speak and unable to move, and when she crumbled, so too did the arrow. Except for the Crystal. The once red Crystal turned completely clear, and sat atop her ashen dust.
♦♦♦
She woke up, mind dazzled and the numbness of a long stupor still gripping her body.
Victim or Perpetrator? She could no longer remember. Perhaps it was all a dream, those memories were all of dreams of another time.
Time? Time no longer had any meaning. Time was to be dashed from the dictionary, not to be spoken of again.
To and fro. Up, down, left, right. No matter where she looked was darkness. Timeless, formless, meaningless. In the darkness she had awoken to, there are no mirrors, no buildings, nothing but what she can see with her eyes and grope at with her hands. It was a vast expanse of mud, dead trees, and vague shadows in pale light. In this place with little form, she had but one word emblazoned upon her memories:
Oblivion.
Oblivion is where she was. Oblivious is what she was. Oblivion was all that remained.
She could not recall which of the caricatures she was in that final memory—if she was even one of them. Touching her grime covered hands to her face would not ensconce even the vaguest of clues. She knew she was female, she could see her dark hair and feel the weariness within her tiny limbs, she could only manage a whisper of a voice for fear of alerting that which lurked just beyond her vision.
Her clothes were tatters of what was likely once a functional yet beautiful dress. Fasteners in strategic places hinted that there may once have been steel to supplement the cloth. Beyond that was a single book filled with songs in a language and script she could hardly remember the methods of reading.
But that was all.
Truly, beyond that she only knew Oblivion, and so that was to be her name in this world where the shadows themselves sought to snatch sanity from her already beleaguered psyche.
Sanity is the Surety of the Soul. For reasons she couldn't understand, she was convinced that she absolutely must stay sane, and to do so would keep her soul from fading away. Her memories were her final sense of self, and the only source of sanity. So she moved forward into the abyss of oblivion.
@komamisa if it's okay with you, I'm going to run though your sheet a little later today. I am at work on a phone right now and it is frying my eyes to look at a CS. It looks great at a scan though,and I'm sure it will be awesome based on your CS skeleton from earlier. @ink blood that is a very good question, and one I had not considered before. My first guess would be that they wake somewhere nearby after a period of time, perhaps an hour or two. It should definitely not be the location of first awakening because that would just be mega annoying. Especially seeing as people die a lot.
Also, yes, the Turncloak Blade has been on his path for some time. You could have been following him for weeks or just seen him. I don't mind how you play it out with each character, but starting at this point will allow us to completely avoid the monotonous and non-interactive section that would precede it. Consider it a turn of fate, or destiny.
Well that sounds interesting indeed. Can't wait for the IC to start.
I can't wait either, i'm going to start work on the opening post tonight.
Just so everybody knows, the IC is going to start with each individual member of the cast –for one reason or another– catching sight of the Turncloak Blade. This will be to speed along the process of all characters encountering each other; otherwise i'm afraid we would be stuck in a solo stalemate for far too long.
So, I assume a person's skills will more or less remain even with some memories lost. I would be quite awkward if Maldron forgot how to use his throwing knives.
Yeah, consider skills somewhat instinctual.
So i've been thinking about how to apply solidification and / or replenishment of memories. The conclusion that I have drawn is this: Sometimes a post will contain an event or place with subtle or slightly more obvious reference to a memory (lost, or still present) belonging to a certain character. If whoever is playing said character notices this reference, PM me immediately and your character will be awarded appropriately. This may come in the form of returning a lost memory, or the manifestation of a memeria based on the memory referenced. You'll have to make sure you're on the ball for this, and read carefully.
I know you can gain memories by killing someone else, but how exactly does that work?
Hmmm, do the people our characters kill respawn as well? Like can we accidentally turn someone into a Husk?
Also!
Is there food to be scavenged? Or are they stuck with what they have or take off others?
You can gather false memories by killing another. To regain your own, you have to be somehow reminded of them. I won't go into too much detail now because that will make it too easy, but there will be certain characters, creatures, and places based off of current or lost memories. Appropriate interaction with such will restore memories or manifest Memeria.
Also, yes. :)
The food issue is something I answered earlier on after Ashagn (I think) asked about it.
Generally, though, you're looking at eating a lot of sketchy-looking-fungii, a lot of sketchy berries, probably some dirt, some grotesque looking insects, and maybe even the flesh of another lost soul, if you've been so lucky :)
Oh! The ones that are marked out are memories already lost.
~~~ Given Name: Shimmer ~~~ Appearance: Sharp blue eyes rippled in the reflection of the dirty pool; they hide behind matted bangs of gold falling to frame a dirt smeared face thin in size and pale in comparison to the lite ruins around them. The reflection was rippled and distorted as a slender hand dipped into the cool murky water cupping it, caressing it, as the pale specter brought the water hungrily up to her cracked lips, once full and decorated by dimples in bright smiles now turned into a decrepit smile, twisted by the despair of this hell. The rest of the small figure was a dirty and pale as it's face, a lacy tattered dress gracing its frames, the end of it thick and heavy with grime and sludge of various things, it was hard to tell if the girl child was as frail as she seemed. ~~~
Equipment: Shimmer carries little on her person, and woke up with even less. Her once gilded heels now tattered and worn attached to her feet with bindings and cloth, scavenged from her own clothes and corpses alike. Dangling slightly from her slender wrist is a small pouch, crudely sown and formed together of shoes and twine. Shoved into it were small berries and scraps of meat; little things she had scavenged. Her namesake and only true possession she awoke with was glittering around her neck; a softly shimmering ring, silver worked into the form of entwining branches and flowers, dotted lightly with little gems and precious stones. It was secured by a simple throng of leather and thread. Her right hand dripped red pearls of liquid as they raced down from the handle of an ax, it looked well crafted and maintained, a gift from a dying man so to speak. She kept a whet stone and small amount of oil tucked in the bindings around her wrist, having spent many a days destroying her once delicate hands as she learned to care and clean for the pretty blade. It too shimmered in the low light. ~~~
Memories:
Her golden hair whipped over her face, her cheeks flushed and glistening in the summer sun. The sky was blue, and wide, and went on until it hit the line of endless grass waving gently in the wind. The pounding sound of hoof beats, whirring bees, and whistling grass assaulted her ears. A rushing feeling of warmth bubbled up through her body, and exited as a rich, full laugh. The feel of the powerful beast under her thrilled her, but not as much as the sight of the bright smile on the face of the man riding beside her, sharing in her liberation.
Her eyes were closed, as feelings of trepidation shot through her, the light bouncing of her feet, him taking her hand sliding something cold and foreign on to it, the weight of it unfamiliar yet not uncomfortable, a well of emotions clouding her eyes as he whispered for her to open them. The ring sat on her hand, shimmering happily in the sun light breaking through the trees. His soft embrace and subtle smell of leather and iron, words of love and adoration being whispered over and over again in her ear, as she felt his shirt moisten beneath her face, still unaware that she was crying. Forever. Those were the only words she could whisper back, and she had meant them.
Her heart pounded solidly in her chest, a heavy thumping as time seemed to slow. Her beloved lay in the bed, her hair mussed and strands sticking with sweat to her forehead and cheeks. Her face was ruddy, her breathing quick, but her eyes were bright and clear. She smiled the smile that only a woman completing the greatest task of her life could smile. The sheets and nightgown formed a soft background, offsetting her almost barbaric appearance. Maybe it was the sense of creatures having completed such an act since the beginning our race. Time slowed to impossibly small increments as she leaned to take the small babe out of her wife's hands. The sharp tangy smell of blood didn't seem out of place as her son twisted and resettled it's tiny body in her arms. She looked up in wonder to see the contented gaze of the mother resting on her. Her, and her son.
The light summer rain kissed her cheek as she stood on the shipping dock, the gentle waves rocked against the stead fast structure as she watched her brother wave as the creaking ship sailed further and further from her view. If the dock was longer she would have run along it to keep his bright happy smile in her eyes for just a little longer. Dropping her hand back down to her side she sighed wistfully, wondering just what it would be like to venture out into the vast ocean. Turning, she continued to walk, stepping down, lightly feeling the warm sand squish beneath her toes and dragging her heels lightly as she left a pattern behind her. So this what it meant to be a shipmaster's daughter, to be bound to the land; stuck on shore as the ocean beckoned, whispering to her with promises of glory and praise. But she was stuck on land, destined to wander the sands of land and not those of the oceans, sighing she picked up a stone holding it up to glimmer in the sun before casting it out into the waters watching it skip lightly on the surface hopefully before sinking.
The arid sands swept across the dunes in torrents and waves summoning and creating a massive sandstorm. The cloth around her face fluttered in the oncoming winds, the spy glass pressed in against her scrunched, wind burnt cheek. The caravan was close, but so was the storm. The soft snort and neigh of beast behind her gave her pause; she herself was seated upon a white washed creature, its soft mane whipping around them, mounted behind her was a band of sand riders, waiting on a signal or word from their leader. The threatening storm, the unsuspecting caravan, the change for gold and goods, the thought of the challenge made her mouth water in suspense. This what what she lived for, the glory of the chase, the building thrill as it drove her to shivers of pleasure, a wild howl escaping her lips as she urged her charge forward the rest of them following her in a wave of colors and wild yelps and calls.
~~~
She laughs politely behind a daintily gloved hand, and takes a sip of the well-watered wine in her glass. The gentleman currently addressing her was soft, portly, with deep creases in his face, a scattering of white hair across his scalp, and generous laugh lines at the edge of his eyes. These she knew, were more from the drink so often consumed by the retired cavalry general, rather than the grandfatherly nature they seemed to portray. She felt the disdain and irritation of wasting her time on this man build up in her and she forced it down without a flicker of disgust marring her perfectly polished expression. He made another slurred joke, this time about the gentlemanly sport of fox hunting. She paid him a vague compliment, accompanied by one of her most dazzling smiles, and he preened visibly, his chest and stomach puffing out like some red-ribbon rooster. She had to become acquainted with the man, she was to live in his household within the year. She steeled herself under the pressure of responsibility and propriety, and prepared to make another exaggerated word of praise. She adjusted her gaze over his shoulder so she wouldn't have to look at him, the bulbous nosed drunkard wouldn't notice either way, and got caught with her mouth ajar. There, dressed in an ill-fitted servers uniform, among the sea of colorful gowns and somber suits, was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. The jacket was stretched tight across his chest and shoulders, and the sleeves were a bit too short, but she barely noted it. He was here. He turned with the drink tray being held idly in his hand, their eyes met. She fell into pools of woody brown and gold, and brushed past her future husband.
A dark laughter echoing through the barren hallway, as a scrapping sound followed it by a soft ticking sound, the ticking of a clock? Far off in the house the sounds of screaming could be heard as an accompaniment to the soft ticking and scrap, scrap, scrap. Another pearl of laughter snaked through the shadowed space. Farther and farther down the hall did the carpet begin to squish, squish, squish, the white walls did start to turn red, red, red as if someone decided them too mundane and droll to be left alone.
The soft touch of his hand gently brushing a wisp of hair back into place, the tittering of laughter as it escaped her, the halo of light around him as he hung over her. The smell of flowers as they crushed the bed beneath them, the blissful feelings as he whispered sweet nothings in her ears, kissing her softly over and over again. The chirping of birds, as they continued to welcome the spring season, their special clearing for them and only them. The nativity of it all, that this would last forever, just her and him in their field of flowers.
~~~~
Awakening: The warm taste of honey lingered on her lips as her eyelids flickered open, a nagging feeling at the back of her mind as she started absentmindedly at the cavernous spikes above her. A slight tilt of her head letting it fall towards the right showed the same never ending scenery, skeleton remains scattered around her; a pleasant smile on her lips as if this was all just a bad dream.
Surely she wouldn't wake up in this place, she was..she was...she was...who was she?
The question hit her like a ton of bricks dragging a hollow ragged breath from her chest as she scrambled to her feet, her heels teetering dangerously on the uneven ground. The soft clanking of metal drew her attention, to the shimmering object on the ground. A ring. A ring of flowers and branches. One that drew out sadness and longing, but oh how it shimmered even in this darkened place. The only sound she could hear was her shaky breath as she reached out tentatively to reclaim the ring, her head screaming in pain as her voice whispered Forever in her ear. In fear she dropped the ring with a shoot as memories flooded back to her in broken fragments, feeling as if something was ripping apart her mind.
"Shimmer. Shimmer. Oh how it Shimmers~"
She hummed softly fascinated by the object of such pain and yet happiness, picking it back up afraid to slip it back on her dirtied hands. A feeling of disgust at the sight of her skin being marred, a pity she couldn't see her dress till much later, after any thoughts of keeping it clean were soon lost. There was little around her, and everything echoed. Whimpering slightly she clutched the ring to her chest backing away slowly from the small circle of light. Perhaps she could find someone to take her home, home? Where was home? So many questions, and every time she thought she had something figured out, it seemed like the walls would laugh at her.
Perhaps she was one of the fortunate ones for in the first day, she was alone, no whisper of dark creatures, or whimpers of frightened souls, it was just her and her thoughts driving her further and further. There were times she would scream and cry, anything to break the silence. Perhaps this was her hell, to exist in this state of nothingness.
But that was wishful thinking, for in the months that followed she would wish for that simple hell once more.
Loving it. Put Shimmer into the character tab when you are ready.
Overall, I have to say i'm so impressed with the character quality of everybody involved. I can already start to see many little plots and stories developing through this fragmented memory narrative. Much love, everybody <3
I am now a bit confused on how to proceed with Maldron once IC starts. After all, his rather unique view on everything is a product of his memories, which are very few right now. I'm not sure how feasible it is for him to retain his philosophy.
As a side note, can the false memories gained distort current ones instead of being added to the "pool" of remaining memories? If so, Maldron will have quite a plot twist. For example, a guy who has memories of his childhood knows he has no brothers or sisters, but gains a false memory which distorts his current ones, and now he thinks he had a brother and a sister.
Even if Maldron looses his memories and the 'why' of what he does, he can still continue on his goal, though he will be entirely unsure why. From there it will become a personal quest to discover why he is so inclined to kill.
Also, yes. Yes you can distort your own memories should you so wish. Whatever makes life more miserable for your characters, I am totally down for.
Well, since the remaining Maldron's memories are nearly devoid of emotion...
Perhaps emotion was the wrong word. The most intense or vivid memories with the most individual meaning have the highest chance to manifest as Memeria.
