Turbowraith

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. III. Finished in Record Time™!

@Crispy Octopus In the flesh! Sort of.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. III. Finished in Record Time™!

Well, I don't know the exact physics behind it, though I have caught sight of some statements proclaiming that an organism is pretty much an exact copy of itself after a while, with all constituent matter replaced (and that poses some existential questions on its' own), I think that likening a strictly material process to a philosophical/spiritual one that involves the singular unit that measures being is sort of like comparing apples and oranges. On the other hand though, this is an RP, and we could simply handwave soul-grafting/absorption/etc. as it simply working as such and not actually replacing the soul in question. I would still very much prefer souls to be imperishable unless subjected to specific effects, though. Keep that dream-logic in mythology and all.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. III. Finished in Record Time™!

I should have followed that discussion on souls more closely, but alas RL got in the way. Now, to be super duper honest, I've gotta say the whole soul fraying concept isn't my cup of tea. I mean, adding such hard mechanics to a somewhat abstract idea kind of diminishes its' value, and sets a handicap for most beings, while also setting some tedious existential questions. I mean, with the Lich example, the Lich's soul would end up being a completely different one, or an amalgamation of sorts. Though it's a cool concept, that could produce some wacky creature ideas, I fear it could, in the long run, be sort of limiting for worldbuilding purposes, new ideas that could emerge and whatnot. Also, though it's not my place to judge, it is my personal opinion that the Sky of Pyres would have far more cosmological weight, and could produce interesting dilemmas and ontological queries if souls were eternal, but limited by nature.

Also, don't turn my spoopy ghosts to dust pls.

In all seriousness, and if I could myself propose something, I would say that it would be better for souls to remain nebulous, ill-defined and ageless cores of being, but very much finite.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. III. Finished in Record Time™!

Here goes! Shield your eyes, fellas!

Foe

Foe

The Restless

Worshipped by scattered cults of dubious intent and invoked in the thoughtless
blasphemies of mourning widows, Foe stands as a patron of the defiant dead.

The Sphere: Under the soil, but not beneath the earth, a tempest beckons. A lethargic vortex of grey clouds constantly on the brink of pouring rain, wind and loose grave soil circles around a massive, levitating plateau, seemingly ripped from somewhere else. A careful and well-traveled observer could notice that despite the constant turmoil of Mourner's Hollow every gust of wind seems to blow towards a specific direction. Inwards. The central area, or The Wailing Valley, as it rightfully earned its' name, serves as the sphere's main landmass and measures only a few dozens of miles in diameter, barely supporting a forest of gnarled, withered trees and a prominent deep gray mesa at the very middle. The surrounding geography, if it can even be called such, takes after the Valley in form, but not entirely in function.

While the Valley certainly has the air of an imposing and uninviting place, the countless islets drifting about the ever-brewing storm can evoke a multitude of different feelings. Though uniform in the peculiar logic that defines them, and never free from the dampened, silvery light that in other worlds, would come from some cloud-obscured sun in its' final few hours, appear almost dreamlike. Something about these clumps of rock and soil, sometimes crookedly floating through ever-rolling clouds, inspires a deep nostalgia in the beholder, as if they are reliving some long-lost memory, and invite them to further lose themselves within. This, however, can be a perilous pursuit, as distance, form and size are malleable concepts in the Hollow, and what can initially appear as a small innocuous cluster of rocks and shrubbery could reveal itself to be a labyrinthine mass of briars and dead elms once a few steps are taken.

Aside from tall grass and vines, and the rare lonely flower, very little grows naturally in this place. Indeed, most of the things one happens across seem to have somehow appeared where they stand, and mysteriously reconstitute themselves if left unobserved for too long. Eternally disheveled cottages, or parts of villages, half-materialized cemeteries and dying treelines give the impression that they themselves, as well as the islets upon which they stand, are not solid features of stone and wood, but idealized and isolated figments of singular, or perhaps collective psyches.

Though a forlorn corner, Mourner's Hollow is closely connected with Galbar, being an almost parallel sub-reality. The simplest ways it could interact with other spheres can take the form of constant, but not necessarily violent winds that bring about an unnatural cold and a deep melancholy in any sentient creature. In places where the sphere's influence is stronger, the dead sleep lightly, and find it easier to awaken and roam about, as they find their own emotions magnified to nearly unspeakable heights. The living do not remain unaffected too, experiencing strange visions and have their own characters slightly change to resemble those of the dead. Most disturbing of all, whenever the barriers between spheres grow particularly weak, places of variable size exhibit properties more akin to the Hollow than their own domain. Levitating objects, cold spots, overcast skies, and peculiar interactions from creatures of the other side all abound in these times and places.

Borders: Mourner's Hollow neighbors with the Pit of Trials, the realm of war and strife, resulting in the creation of the Killing Fields in the place where the two interact the most. A jagged battlefield comprised of thousands of nearly adjacent platforms, dry and cracked, serves as the ground of a perpetual war of all against all which intensifies the more one moves to the center. The more straightforwardly violent creatures of the lot are drawn there, mezmerized by perpetual warcries, clashing weapons and ever-circling crows.

Portfolio: Foe holds dominion over the force that compels a dead creature, corporeal or not, to break free from the natural cycle of death, and instead linger in realms that it was not meant to remain. Known as restless death, or Undeath, this condition is supremely difficult to reverse, although comparably rare, and rather complex. Undeath is a many-tiered ladder, with those unwillingly risen by artificial means standing firmly at the bottom, and those who refuse to pass on due to sentiment or will near the top. Though Foe cannot cause a creature to leave the natural cycle on his own, he taps into those with the predisposition to remain, and facilitates the process, integrating said souls into his domain.

Naturally, all independent undead creatures have a connection with Mourner's Hollow, depending on their respective strengths of character. The lost and confused apparition of a little girl only has a rudimentary connection to Foe's realm, and thus proves more difficult for Foe to possess, but a wailing banshee is, knowingly or not, already claimed. Once firmly attached to Mourner's hollow, a restless creature becomes an integral part of it, as if it was always meant to be there, and never quite leaves, instead standing between two worlds, even if it finds itself on a different sphere. As such, it is almost impossible for an undead creature to manifest or maintain its' presence in the upper parts of the cosmos, and always returns to the Hollow once destroyed.

Yet, even the spirits of the dead are plagued by the ever-present and much loathed fraying of the soul, and the ones unlucky enough to remain out of Foe's reach find their sanity and form unwinding, gradually transforming into weak shells of their former selves, or monstrous, mindless creatures futilely fighting against entropy before finally coming undone. Foe's compassion is infinite, however, and all lingering souls are welcome in the Hollow. Once they enter, they find their condition paused, forever remaining in the state they entered. Though they may deteriorate, in some cases quicker, if they somehow manage to leave the Hollow, the sphere can gradually restore any audacious ghoul or spectre to the condition it was when it originally entered Foe's domain.

Often considered a perversion of natural order, the trappings of undeath appear not only in the creatures themselves, but in small, localized events controlled instinctively by the various afflicted. Depending on the source, a number of occurrences can take place, including poltergeist effects, cold spots, isolated gusts of wind, and even such bizarre things as bleeding walls. All of these, of course, mimic the workings of Mourner's Hollow in one way or another, and as such, Foe himself is a master at creating them, to a far greater extent than his flock.

Persona: To spit in the face of entropy, to rage against the seemingly inevitable, to lose oneself in weltschmertz and go beyond. That is the nature of the Restless Death, and of the ever-grieving god of undeath. Dragged into a world that he does not approve of, and set to bring about events he does not care for, the self-proclaimed Foe hid itself in the low-hanging mist and loose soil of the first graves, away from prying eyes and grand ambitions. As he wallows in his own self-imposed isolation, he greedily, almost by instinct, snatches the spirits of those that resonate with him and surrounds his person with them. He covets them, yet thinks of these creatures not as servants, or playthings, but as a measure of company, solace perhaps, against an otherwise diabolical cosmos.

Though he languishes even in his own domain, and remains temperamental at the best of times, Foe approaches all matters with a subdued, and highly sardonic attitude befitting one who cares little for the affairs of the living. That changes somewhat when the dead come into play. With an almost fanatical possessiveness, he tries to hoard and safeguard as many of them as possible, and resents not only the passing of those who elude him, but the absence of what triggers the dead to linger in those that do not.

Appearance: Despite his godly nature, Foe forgoes any impossibly grandiose appearance, and instead prefers to appear as a wiry, levitating corpse above the height of most mortals, but not by any length gigantic. His skin is parched. grayish blue in color, and tightly stretched along his frame, revealing the curves and lines of withered musculature. Rudimentary articles of plate, rough and blackened, cover parts of the corpse's body, leaving much of his flesh bare, as well as his hands, the fingers of which seamlessly transition into bladed ends. Behind said armor, greyed and tattered scraps of pall and loose ends of tightly wrapped gauze emerge and flail eternally, as if stirred into motion by some unfelt current. The figure's head appears to be perpetually enclosed by a helm akin to a skull-shaped burial mask, with faded and shallow features. In stark contrast with its' dark colours, two shining eyes, revealed through holes torn in the burial shroud beneath, capture the viewer's attention in an almost mystical fashion. Unnaturally large in proportion, their irises resemble silvery-white coins, and stare with a cold unblinking intensity.

Divinus: The Divine RP, Mk. III

Ey ey! We got a discord link?

Divinus: The Divine RP, Mk. III

Ey boys, just dropping by to state my interest. You guys think an Undead portfolio could work?

[D&D 5E] Lost Realms of Arann: Orzamar

Eldred

South of Tinwarren

Eldred had already regretted coming this far, but his gut assured him this was more than a few air-headed magic types losing themselves in the forest. If the recent greenskin unrest and the existence of these supposedly civilized cobolds were anything to go by, these students could very well be in grave danger, if not already beyond aid. Still suffering a mild headache from the gnome's incessant babbling, the monster hunter found the opportunity to distance himself from her immediate vicinity and took some time to regain his composure. He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the bridge of his nose, noticing a shoddy sign just as he opened them. He focused on the inscription, briefly squinting as he went over the foreign characters, and then regarded the path that lay ahead.

He was not especially thrilled with the remoteness of their end destination, since it meant that ambushes among other risks were more probable the deeper they went. But they had to press on, what with the current group being all the manpower Orzamar could muster. He wasn't terribly amused by that either. Dismissing some paranoid thoughts, he checked his surroundings, scanning the terrain around him for anything unusual. A procedure performed out of habit by that point, but for good reason.

Hider

Actions: Eldred performs a WIS(survival) check of 12, to spot any signs of suspicious activity. Tracks, detritus, et cetera.

[D&D 5E] Lost Realms of Arann: Orzamar

Eldred van Gast

^{Image coming soon!}

[D&D 5E] Lost Realms of Arann: Orzamar

Just dropping by to declare interest for both me and a friend. Hope this thing picks up!

A Cosmic Disturbance (Oraculum et Turbowraith)

The being sprung up from his throne, and the mountains surrounding it trembled. Leaning back a head that poked above the nebulae that stretched ever upwards from his domain, he parted the lot of them above from where he stood with nothing but an intense stare, and gazed upon the myriads of shimmering stars of a world beyond, yet at the same time adjacent to his own. After a few moments of wary scanning, the folds and tatters of his astral cloak writhed and flailed in rage, yet his jaw, dry and bony as it was, remained still. No words escaped him and he remained frozen, staring up at cosmic horizons. His gauntlet, the only other thing emerging from the mass of midnight sky wrapped around an inscrutable body, clenched and trembled in fury of a different kind. This was the wrath of a being who had, not in the uncountable millennia of its' existence, seen anything so potentially destructive and so absolutely alien as this travelling through the mortal universe.

Quickly, he returned to his seat again, and the mountains shuddered a second time. The peaceful clouds above had turned from their usual glowing reds and blues and light greens to a deep purple, the gaping hole in them twisting and widening and spiraling above the being. Perhaps it was an omen, all too literal, for a storm to come. He dismissed the now inert mists of scrying with a sharp wave of the hand. As they spiraled into invisibility and sunk back into the pool from which they came, the giant settled, spoke, and lightning followed his words, illuminating the ever-darkening valley.

"Im-Ou-Thas."

A few hours, or what we as humans would consider hours in such an place, passed, and from the mouth of a small canyon in the north, connecting the basin with whatever lay beyond, four tiny riders approached. Though covered in gauze and ancient bronze plate, they seemed almost weightless, as their steeds, similarly equipped, zipped through the valley with unnatural speed. The one leading the charge was thinner than the rest, and far less armored, only donning an ornate cuirass and the garments of a priest. His name was indeed Imouthas, and even after untold centuries, he still felt restlessness at the sound of his master’s call, although the pride that came along with it was now all but absent, and instead replaced with a creeping unease. From the moment he was called, he knew that something was not quite right.

The riders turned their bandage-wrapped heads skywards, and for a brief moment, marveled at the sight of the being approaching them. Not quite walking, not quite floating, it shrunk with every step. By the time it had reached them, it was no taller than a pine, yet it’s form was in every way unchanged. While the three guards had turned their gaze to the ground in solemn acknowledgement, Imouthas remained fixated on his master’s form, silently waiting for instructions.

”Peril comes. We must make them remember.”

Though the phrase was vague, Imouthas knew what it meant, and he could not help but be taken aback at the implications. Up until this moment, the severity of the matter eluded him.

”I am not one to needlessly doubt, great one, but even if the mortals can be made to remember, should they? They are too preoccupied with life within their concrete ziggurats to properly grasp what they once had mastered. The old ways and the knowledge that comes with them could wreak havoc on their world! They would undo themselves, of that I have no doubt.”

The being remained silent for a few moments.

”You are wise, Imouthas. And this is why I seek your counsel. It seems then that we must exercise subtlety.”

He motioned, and a small misty tendril circled around the rider and crept into his palm. He felt it getting dense, solid, but, still hanging from the being's words, he did not break eye contact.

”If we cannot reveal ourselves, then let us be found.”