Introduction post for Alistair is up.
Dude, good stuff!
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Dude, good stuff!
Dobromil broke through the last of the thickets. His body collapsed, the impact bringing it back to the realm of visibility for good. Behind him stood the dark forest of the decayed, in front of him a hidden path that lead up a steep rocky incline. The incline broke up into the sky, forming a craggy mountain, home of the monastery.
Mud caked Dobromilβs boots, soaking all the way up to his knees. He was breathing raggedly and his stomach began to turn, the cold of the magic leaving his body. His knuckles turned white and his fingerless gloves soaked through as he clutched at wet tufts of wild grass, their blades a dark evil green. His body jerked and he heaved, pushing himself onto his knees as his body jerked again. He retched, gagged, and suddenly vomited. Three polished white stones of quartz flowed from his mouth riding a shallow tide of bile, the very same from the ritual. He coughed.
Falling onto his rump he sat for a moment collecting himself, wiping the stones on the wild grasses and forbs. He pulled his leather bag up from its collapsed position and carefully placed the stones in a pouch on the inside of the ingredient bag, right next to some clear cubic stones. Sucking in a relieved breath he procured a beaten yellow stained book from the bag as well as a sharpened pine stick and a small vial of sepia. He thumbed through countless notes and ritual instructions, all written in his handwriting, to the last entry denoting a Hymn of βvague anatomy.β He quickly scribbled the experience he just lived done, proclaiming the ritual a success. Blowing softly on the pages he waited for the sepia to dry before slapping the book shut, wiping the stickβs tip on his tattered breeches and tossing it back into the bag.
Taking one last deep breath he forced himself to his feet and slung his bag over his shoulders, a strap running down each side of his torso and tucking under his arms. He fixed his worn vest, straightened his dirty shirt and pulled his sleeves back down over his biceps. He quickly fixed his breeches and boot length pants as well.
Dobromil fiddled with his leather strap belt around his waist, adjusting the pouches, and small utility knife attached, as he took his first few steps along the path. Only a small trampling of rock grown grass gave the path away, and as the winds picked up, dust began to form in the air. Dobromil tucked his grey patched scarf up over his nose and continued.
The walk was silent, as was his mind. The only thoughts buzzing were the instructions of his guide, long before the poor man met his end. Dobromil couldnβt even blame himself for the loss of the scout, the man having been snagged in the middle of the night by some monster of the purgatory. Dobromil hadnβt seen it happen, but he could speculate from the camp when he woke up. The man likely wandered off to urinate, but found more than a willing tree.
Not feeling right about the situation, and not knowing if the man was alive, Dobromil simply left the camp untouched, the manβs belongings where he had left them. Many years ago Dobromil may have championed a grand adventurous search and rescue mission, but nowadays he knew the foolhardiness of the thought, especially considering how common such a situation was during the nights of purgatory. Besides, Dobromil was a broken spear and he knew it.
Dobromil kicked a stone and shoved his hands into his breech pockets, having sewn them on the side with slightly mismatched coloured cloth. He looked like a beggar, and he knew it. All the money he could obtain was put towards purchasing ingredients that he couldnβt gather on his own. He didnβt find much use for money anymore anyways. He had no home, no property, nothing to upkeep but his health. It was probably for the best, he had turned into a slob. Where he once had careful manners and an extremely clean attitude, he had replaced with greatly disorganized and uncaring facade. Only the interior of his coveted bag lived as proof of his hidden penchant for cleanliness and organization. It lived almost as a metaphor, his desire for order and purity only obtainable on the inside in such a chaotic world. So, yes, he was a mess, but a mess with a reason and desire.
His boots scuffed to a stop and his eyes focused back in reality, drifting away from his internal monologue. He was there. In front of his stood three confused looking maidens, their clothes and skin contrasting Dobromilβs with extreme cleanliness. Behind them the door to the monastery was open, the trio assumingly having seen Dobromil coming while he was lost in his mind.
They stared at each other for a second too long in silence before one of the maidens, a young woman with straight black hair spoke up, βSeeker?β
βYes, I have come to see the Vicar,β Dobromil answered simply, pulling his scarf down from his face, βCan you take me to her?β
βOur Lady have instructed us to first see to your needs, to see that you are well rested and satisfied,β The Maiden answered.
Dobromil squinted, his usual look of anger and disappointment turning into a bubbling cynicism, βI will be rested and satisfied once I have learned the location of the Herald.β
The maidenβs face betrayed frustration, βVery well, I will send one of us to her. Come this way in the meantime.β
Dobromil nodded, βMuch thank-β His stomach began to bubble and groan as he mounted the steps to follow the trio, one looking back at him with a knowing look. Dobromil could have sworn he heard a smart remark under the breath of the youngest of the trio.
The man sighed in defeat, βPerhaps you can grant me one more favour.β
The black haired maiden looked back at him, the question on her face rather than words. Dobromil looked down and the maiden could have sworn she heard shame in his voice, βI need food and water.β
@VeridianSeekerThe effect and ingredients are good to mention, but the process is individual from person to person, so that can be omitted from any general directory of rituals. I summarized and made shorter what you wrote. Have a look at it and see if it can be added to the OOC information. If you can summarize the process, as well, then that could be added here.
Looks good to me! I didn't know if you wanted to add the whole breathing factor in, I guess it doesn't matter but I thought it made it more interesting.
Don't be afraid to kill followers. Everyone will not survive. Followers come and go.
@VeridianSeekerI will consider this more closely tomorrow.
Sounds good! Everytime I do a new hymn. Do you want me to message you a section like this before hand?
@poet
This Hymn will completely mask your scent to that of a desired habitat, as well as cause your body to almost completely blend into a specific habitat chosen during the ritual phases, so long as the breath is being held or exhaled. The spell should break as soon as you leave the habitat chosen, and does not carry over to other areas. For more general hiding Hymns or hiding Hymns not reliant on a habitat to work, try Dobromil's Hymn of General Hiding, which while is not as effective (only dampens smell, doesn't replace, requires slightly less focus to spot a hider), can be used just about anywhere with acceptable results.
What you need:
The Process
Either rake your coals into a circle, or your natural items. Place the natural items in the hair in a hexagon patter if applicable. Place the polished stones so that they form a triangle inside the circle. Place a pile of salt and cinnabar in the center of the Triangle, then wash your forearms with remaining salt. Squat in such a way that your exposed knees and the tip of your nose would form the corners of a triangle if you were to draw a line to each. Mark both knees with a circle using the Chalk of Lapus, and then dot the nose to finish the triangle. Pinch the center pile of salt and cinnabar, and sprinkle some of its grains onto the stones and then in the circle on each knee. Using the chalk of charcoal, draw the sacred shapes on the apex of each bicep and connect every muscle tone using the old languages and shapes. Bring the chalk to the face and connect the bottom of the eye to the jawline, then the blue dot of the nose to the hairline. Finally invoke a prayer, and stare intently at the center of the ritual circle, humming the vibrancy of hiding.
Note: I edited my post so that Dobromil was taking the ingredients out of an old ingredient bag, and mentioned a personal grimoire of his, this would likely be in it, or at least will be once he can write down that it was a success.
Dobromil's Hymn of Specific Hiding
This Hymn will completely mask your scent to that of a desired habitat, as well as cause your body to almost completely blend into a specific habitat chosen during the ritual phases, so long as the breath is being held or exhaled. The spell should break as soon as you leave the habitat chosen, and does not carry over to other areas. For more general hiding Hymns or hiding Hymns not reliant on a habitat to work, try Dobromil's Hymn of General Hiding, which while is not as effective (only dampens smell, doesn't replace, requires slightly less focus to spot a hider), can be used just about anywhere with acceptable results.
What you need:
- A stick of chalk and charcoal mixture
- A stick of chalk and lapus lazuli mixture
- Polished stones of spherical white quartz, marble or clear quartz can substitute at risk
- Salt
- Granulate Cinnabar (handle at own risk)
- Naturally occurring items taken from the environment you wish to hide in
- For a general hiding spell, replace the above ingredient with fresh coals from a fire
The Process
Either rake your coals into a circle, or your natural items. Place the natural items in the hair in a hexagon patter if applicable. Place the polished stones so that they form a triangle inside the circle. Place a pile of salt and cinnabar in the center of the Triangle, then wash your forearms with remaining salt. Squat in such a way that your exposed knees and the tip of your nose would form the corners of a triangle if you were to draw a line to each. Mark both knees with a circle using the Chalk of Lapus, and then dot the nose to finish the triangle. Pinch the center pile of salt and cinnabar, and sprinkle some of its grains onto the stones and then in the circle on each knee. Using the chalk of charcoal, draw the sacred shapes on the apex of each bicep and connect every muscle tone using the old languages and shapes. Bring the chalk to the face and connect the bottom of the eye to the jawline, then the blue dot of the nose to the hairline. Finally invoke a prayer, and stare intently at the center of the ritual circle, humming the vibrancy of hiding.
Note: I edited my post so that Dobromil was taking the ingredients out of an old ingredient bag, and mentioned a personal grimoire of his, this would likely be in it, or at least will be once he can write down that it was a success.
And posted! @poet I hope that display of Hymn was up to code. If not, I can fix it/alter it.
Dobromil squatted under the dense canopy of the forest. It was all but dark, as was the usual of purgatory, and the smell of rot and dirt swamped the remaining sense. Little drips of water fell from the broad leaves above, collected from the hazy mist that overtook most of the woodland. It was a wonder anything in this wetland could rot, but the smell of the decayed was undeniable.
βWould a vow not to harm all life apply to the clearly dead, yet moving?β Dobrimil pondered as he placed polished white stones geometrically inside a circle of pine needles so as to form a triangle inside a circle. His thick beaten boots made a sucking sound as air escaped the dense wet foliage below, his body shifting as he sprinkled a pile of salt and some unknown crushed red powder onto the center of the shape.
βMaybe,β He answered his thought with another, wiping dirt from his exposed forearms and then scrubbing them with the remaining salt, βbut would such a cheating fracture of a vow be worth it?β
βNo,β He answered again, pulling up his tattered breeches and thick woolen pants underneath, drawing circles on his knees with a stick of blue chalk he had taken from his big worn leather bag of ingredients. The bright colour greatly contrasted his white, pale skin.
βAccepting such a breach lays the foundation for more,β He wiped the residue of the blue chalk from his fingers on the tip of his nose, highlighting the slight aqualine. Dipping his fingers into the pile of salt and red powder, he pinched off a little and began dropping tiny grains onto the polished stones, and then on each knee.
βIt weakens the will, and opens the gate to the enemy,β He continued to think as he then picked up black stick of chalk that was laying on top of his grimoire inside the bag and rolled up his short sleeves from his biceps and to his shoulders, βThere can be no luxury from virtue, no vacation into the shallows of sin.β
He began to draw circles on the apexs of his biceps, flexing to outline the tones in his muscle. Continuing his drawings, he began to connect the tone lines to the apex circles using strange geometric shapes and runes. βThere is always a better way, there is always a choice to be made.β
βSome risky, some simple, some never tested.β He lifted the chalk to his high perched cheekbones and formed a straight line from underneath his grey eyes, down his cheek to the black stubble on the sides of his jaw. Taking the chalk and pressing it above the blue dot on the tip of his nose, he let it drag up the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows, across his forehead and to his hairline, the black bundle pulled back in a thick ponytail, pine needles ceremoniously placed at certain intervals and patterns so as to stick out and form a crooked geometric shape.
βLight protect me on my maiden voyage, and pray I return,β He whispered out loud, his voice low, naturally raspy, and tinged with bitterness. He stared at the center of the ritual casting before him, his face stone frozen in its usual squinting skepticism, his brows resting at an angle that feigned anger, his lower lids squinting up as if disappointed, and his lips a straight line of indifference.
The center of the ritual circle began to glow a faint blood red, pulses of white light shooting from the stones and hitting the pile of powder and salt. The pine needles circling the ritual and in his hair began to smoke, the scent of man disappeared and being replaced with that of the forest and mud. The blue lines and dot began to blink and with a suddenly hum from both the circle and Dobromil, eerie black lines began to transect his entire body, capturing his skin in a web of strange symbols. The stones began to sputter and disintegrate, and a quick red beam of light snapped from the center of the ritual and harmlessly onto the tip of Dobromilβs nose, the light disappearing into the blue dot. The pile of once red powder began to turn a muckish brown, the fine grains turning to sludge and all at once, the circle was scattered by a sudden wind.
Dobromil squatted, perfectly still, the lines on his body fading into his skin, and the pine needles in his hair were gone, having dissolved into thin air. He sucked in a deep breath, his body shimmering as he did so. Holding in his breath, he suddenly disappeared. A few seconds went by and he exhaled, then inhaling his body faded back into view. He held his breath, disappearing once more. Slowly he exhaled, and as he began to inhale, he returned into view once again, his eyes watching his hands closely.
βIt worked,β He concluded. Dobromil sucked in a large breath, his body once again going invisible, but this time, he began to run. His footsteps still made indents on the mud and leaves, but he knew the decayed werenβt that keen, especially with his scent replaced with the aroma of a tree.
He exhaled and quickly sucked in a new breath, blinking back for a mere moment as he continued his ocular sprint through the woods. He passed by groups of decayed, only being spotted once, much to the beasts confusion when he disappeared a split second after.
Despite his easy passage through the decayed, he couldnβt help but feel that growing cold, a terrible winter he knew too well. The cost of a Hymn, like that of a Hex was paid the same, and he could feel the terrible chill it cast inside his body. His mind almost felt sluggish and drugged despite his heavy pumping heart. His soul rattled and he closed his eyes, a vortex forming in his head.
He exhaled. He inhaled. His eyes opened to the sight of a ring of fire and four people interacting with the damnable ones of decay. He held in a breath, and he was gone again. He quickly sprinted past the scene knowing his own uselessness in such matters. Four armed people were more than enough for the group he saw them with. He shook a growing guilt from his mind and continued. His will was battling with the chilling injury in his very soul with each advancing step. He knew it would pass, all pain passes.
βWould a vow not to harm all life apply to the clearly dead, yet moving?β Dobrimil pondered as he placed polished white stones geometrically inside a circle of pine needles so as to form a triangle inside a circle. His thick beaten boots made a sucking sound as air escaped the dense wet foliage below, his body shifting as he sprinkled a pile of salt and some unknown crushed red powder onto the center of the shape.
βMaybe,β He answered his thought with another, wiping dirt from his exposed forearms and then scrubbing them with the remaining salt, βbut would such a cheating fracture of a vow be worth it?β
βNo,β He answered again, pulling up his tattered breeches and thick woolen pants underneath, drawing circles on his knees with a stick of blue chalk he had taken from his big worn leather bag of ingredients. The bright colour greatly contrasted his white, pale skin.
βAccepting such a breach lays the foundation for more,β He wiped the residue of the blue chalk from his fingers on the tip of his nose, highlighting the slight aqualine. Dipping his fingers into the pile of salt and red powder, he pinched off a little and began dropping tiny grains onto the polished stones, and then on each knee.
βIt weakens the will, and opens the gate to the enemy,β He continued to think as he then picked up black stick of chalk that was laying on top of his grimoire inside the bag and rolled up his short sleeves from his biceps and to his shoulders, βThere can be no luxury from virtue, no vacation into the shallows of sin.β
He began to draw circles on the apexs of his biceps, flexing to outline the tones in his muscle. Continuing his drawings, he began to connect the tone lines to the apex circles using strange geometric shapes and runes. βThere is always a better way, there is always a choice to be made.β
βSome risky, some simple, some never tested.β He lifted the chalk to his high perched cheekbones and formed a straight line from underneath his grey eyes, down his cheek to the black stubble on the sides of his jaw. Taking the chalk and pressing it above the blue dot on the tip of his nose, he let it drag up the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows, across his forehead and to his hairline, the black bundle pulled back in a thick ponytail, pine needles ceremoniously placed at certain intervals and patterns so as to stick out and form a crooked geometric shape.
βLight protect me on my maiden voyage, and pray I return,β He whispered out loud, his voice low, naturally raspy, and tinged with bitterness. He stared at the center of the ritual casting before him, his face stone frozen in its usual squinting skepticism, his brows resting at an angle that feigned anger, his lower lids squinting up as if disappointed, and his lips a straight line of indifference.
The center of the ritual circle began to glow a faint blood red, pulses of white light shooting from the stones and hitting the pile of powder and salt. The pine needles circling the ritual and in his hair began to smoke, the scent of man disappeared and being replaced with that of the forest and mud. The blue lines and dot began to blink and with a suddenly hum from both the circle and Dobromil, eerie black lines began to transect his entire body, capturing his skin in a web of strange symbols. The stones began to sputter and disintegrate, and a quick red beam of light snapped from the center of the ritual and harmlessly onto the tip of Dobromilβs nose, the light disappearing into the blue dot. The pile of once red powder began to turn a muckish brown, the fine grains turning to sludge and all at once, the circle was scattered by a sudden wind.
Dobromil squatted, perfectly still, the lines on his body fading into his skin, and the pine needles in his hair were gone, having dissolved into thin air. He sucked in a deep breath, his body shimmering as he did so. Holding in his breath, he suddenly disappeared. A few seconds went by and he exhaled, then inhaling his body faded back into view. He held his breath, disappearing once more. Slowly he exhaled, and as he began to inhale, he returned into view once again, his eyes watching his hands closely.
βIt worked,β He concluded. Dobromil sucked in a large breath, his body once again going invisible, but this time, he began to run. His footsteps still made indents on the mud and leaves, but he knew the decayed werenβt that keen, especially with his scent replaced with the aroma of a tree.
He exhaled and quickly sucked in a new breath, blinking back for a mere moment as he continued his ocular sprint through the woods. He passed by groups of decayed, only being spotted once, much to the beasts confusion when he disappeared a split second after.
Despite his easy passage through the decayed, he couldnβt help but feel that growing cold, a terrible winter he knew too well. The cost of a Hymn, like that of a Hex was paid the same, and he could feel the terrible chill it cast inside his body. His mind almost felt sluggish and drugged despite his heavy pumping heart. His soul rattled and he closed his eyes, a vortex forming in his head.
He exhaled. He inhaled. His eyes opened to the sight of a ring of fire and four people interacting with the damnable ones of decay. He held in a breath, and he was gone again. He quickly sprinted past the scene knowing his own uselessness in such matters. Four armed people were more than enough for the group he saw them with. He shook a growing guilt from his mind and continued. His will was battling with the chilling injury in his very soul with each advancing step. He knew it would pass, all pain passes.
Noo it was my favorite one so far. It had so much depth in such a small amount of time, but wasn't overwhelming at all and felt natural. It really established your character and I can't wait to read more. It soaked me in and now I'm invested. Like it felt like the beginning to a novel, established perfectly 10/10.
@MegaOscarPwn
@MegaOscarPwn
Wooo, I did a thing.
Hopefully it was good.
I had Death Grips playing on the background, to inspire me :^).
Good? You hope it was good? Really? It was the best one yet! That was so good.
I can already tell this is going to be a great roleplay.
I was actually thinking of using light too, but more as a dazzle and run effect. I have some other ideas to keep things original though!
I was actually thinking of using light too, but more as a dazzle and run effect. I have some other ideas to keep things original though!
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